THE 

RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES 
OF  NARRATION 


BY 


CARROLL  LEWIS  MAXCY,  M.  A. 

Morris  Professor  of  Rhetoric  in  Williams  College 


BOSTON   NEW   YORK    CHICAGO 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN   COMPANY 
Cambridge 


COPYRIGHT,    IQII,    BY    CARROLL   LEWIS    MAXCY 
ALL    RIGHTS   RESERVED 


TO 

THE  MEMBERS  OF  "ENGLISH  3" 

WHOSE  CORDIAL  INTEREST  HAS  ENCOURAGED 

THE  PREPARATION  OF  THESE 

DISCOURSES 


226755 


CONTENTS 


INTRODUCTION .      .    ix 

%  I.  DEFINITION      .      .      .      ...      .      .   -  .      1 

--NARRATION  IN  ITS  RELATIONS  TO  THE  OTHER 

FORMS  OF  DISCOURSE 6 

I.  Narration  and  Exposition  .       .       .       .6 
II.  Narration  and  Argumentation  .       .       .12 

III.  Narration  and  Description        .       .       .13 

IV.  Summary 18 

VII.  ANALYSIS  OF  THE  NARRATIVE  FORM       .      .    20 

III.  GENERAL  RHETORICAL  CHARACTERISTICS  OF 

NARRATIVE  FORMS 29 

A.  THE  NARRATIVE  ITEM 29 

I.  Unity 29 

II.  Emphasis 31 

III.  Coherence        .       .       .       .       .       .       .37 

(a)  The  Structure  and  Ordering  of  the 

Sentences 38 

(b)  The  Ordering  of  the  Narrative  De- 

tails         46 

B.  EPISODIC  NARRATION 50 

I.  Unity. 50 

II.  Emphasis 53 

III.  Proportion 56 

IV.  Coherence        .  .58 


\ 


vi  CONTENTS 

IV.  THE  BACKGROUND  OF  THE  ACTION:  SETTING  65 

SETTING  DEFINED .  67 

EXPOSITORY  AND  DRAMATIC  SETTING  ...  67 

Local  Color 82 

Atmosphere 85 

Symbolic  Setting 87 

Undue  Elaboration  of  Setting    ....  90 

Development  of  Setting  in  Narrative  Writing  101 

V.  THE  AGENT   OF  THE  ACTION:   CHARACTER   107 
DEFINITION  OF  "CHARACTER"  .      .      .      .107 

DIRECT  CHARACTERIZATION 114 

INDIRECT  CHARACTERIZATION  .  .  .  .116 
(a)  Characterization  by  Action  .  .  .119 
(6)  Characterization  by  Speech,  etc.  .  .123 
(c)  Characterization  by  Environment  .  .  143 

RHETORICAL  QUALITIES  IN  CHARACTERIZA- 
TION      146 

Clearness 146 

Unity    . .       .150 

Coherence 172 

VI.  THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION:  PLOT     .      .  178 

DEFINITIONS 178 

RHETORICAL  ELEMENTS  IN  PLOT  STRUCTURE    182 

Unity 183 

(a)  Definition  of  Plot  Unity  .  .  .  .183 
(6)  Unity  in  Complication  ....  188 
(c)  Point  of  View  in  Plot  Structure  .  .  193 

Coherence 199 

Climax 201 

(a)  The  Method  of  Chronicle       .       .       .203 


CONTENTS 


VII 


(6)  The  Method  of  Drama         .       .       .205 

(c)  The  Method  of  Story     .       .       .       .219 

Emphasis 224 

(a)  Massing 225 

(b)  Proportion 233 

(c)  Definiteness 237 

VII.  FORMS  OF  NARRATIVE  LITERATURE  .      .      .  239 
I.  THE  NARRATIVE  OF  FACT      ....  239 

History 239 

Biography 250 

II.  THE  NARRATIVE  OF  IMAGINATION    .      .  254  . 

The  Novel 254 

The  Short-story .261 

INDEX 275 

LIST  OF  FIGURES 

Figure  1 68 

Figure  2 189 

Figure  3 191 

Figure  4 207 

Figure  5 209 

Figure  6 210 

Figure  7 211 

Figure  8 .   .   .-  .   .   .212 

Figure  9  ...... 215 

Figure  10  .  » 216 

Figure  11 221 

Figure  12 222 

Figure  13  ...  - 224 

Figure  14 .230 

Figure  15 231 


INTRODUCTION 

THOSE  of  us  who  have  experienced  the  perilous  delights 
of  learning  to  ride  a  bicycle  will  recall  the  suspense  that 
attended  the  discovery  of  some  obstacle  or  pitfall  in  the 
path.  The  whole  roadway  was  before  us  where  to 
choose;  yet  surely  and  swiftly  we  would  bear  down  upon 
the  very  object  that  it  was  our  whole  purpose  to  shun. 
In  ordering  the  pages  that  follow,  I  have  often  seemed  to 
renew  these  experiences.  It  has  been  my  purpose  to 
set  forth  the  rhetorical  principles  of  narrative  composi- 
tion, not  to  prepare  another  manual  on  the  novel  and 
the  short-story;  that  has  already  been  done  often  and 
well.  It  has  seemed,  however,  that  there  might  be  a 
place  for  examining  the  broader  field  that  includes  not 
only  fiction  but  history,  biography,  and  all  forms  of 
composition  the  purpose  of  which  is  to  set  in  order  the 
details  of  an  occurrence.  Yet  the  novel  and  the  short- 
story  have  constantly  obtruded  themselves.  From  its 
very  character,  its  broader  emotional  appeal,  fiction 
furnishes  by  far  the  most  effective  illustration  of  narra- 
tive principles.  And  I  fear,  therefore,  lest  these  narra- 
tive types  have  too  frequently  been  made  unduly  promi- 
nent. If  this  be  the  case,  it  is  in  spite  of  deliberate  effort 
to  avoid  the  danger,  and  not  because  the  danger  was 
unforeseen. 

The  charge  is  often  brought  against  college  courses  in 
composition  that  they  are  barren,  —  they  do  not  in- 
spire literary  masterpieces.  "Show  us  your  novelists, 
your  poets,"  exclaims  the  critic.  Yet  courses  in  mathe- 
matics, in  physics,  in  the  modern  languages,  are  not 


x  INTRODUCTION 

decried,  because  in  each  graduating  class  we  fail  to  find 
Euclids,  Newtons,  Goethes,  and  Molieres.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  intelligent  appreciation  is  a  very  important  func- 
tion of  the  so-called  "advanced  courses  in  composi- 
tion." And  the  student  of  structure  and  style  may  in- 
deed gain  an  appreciative  insight  into  the  work  of  the 
master,  if  he  attempts  to  do  in  a  small  way  what  the 
master  has  done  in  a  large  way.  We  can  always  better 
judge  any  kind  of  work  if  we  have  tried  our  own  hand 
at  it,  even  though  our  efforts  may  not  be  crowned  by 
the  Academy. 

The  course  of  study,  then,  that  is  outlined  in  the  fol- 
lowing pages  may  well  be  accompanied  by  exercises  in 
composition :  in  setting,  in  characterization,  in  the  order- 
ing of  plot-material.  But  extensive  reading  should  at- 
tend the  work  of  composition;  it  will  serve  as  a  basis  for 
discussion,  illustration,  and  imitation.  Few  courses  offer 
better  material  for  arousing  interest  in  good  literature 
than  does  a  course  in  narrative  composition.  Every  stu- 
dent is  interested  in  story  and  in  history,  and  open  dis- 
cussion of  narrative  principles,  particularly  of  charac- 
terization, frequently  results  in  intelligent  enthusiasm 
for  what  is  really  excellent,  and  simultaneously  develops 
a  distaste  for  the  superficial  and  "trashy"  narratives 
that  are  all  too  common.  It  is  needless,  perhaps,  to  add 
that  in  this  work  the  text-book  must  serve  merely  as  a 
definite  starting-point;  the  inspiration  must  come  from 
the  teacher. 

A  course  of  parallel  readings  that  has  been  tested 
by  an  experience  of  several  years  embraces  one  work 
of  historical  character,  one  biography,  one  novel,  and 
thirty  or  forty  short-stories.  The  following  specific 
works  have  been  found  adapted  to  a  course  of  this 
character:  — 


INTRODUCTION 


XI 


HISTORY: 


BIOGRAPHY: 


THE  NOVEL: 


THE  SHORT-STORY: 


Creasy:  Fifteen  Decisive  Battles  of  the 

World. 

Macaulay:  chap,  i  of  the  History  of  Eng- 
land. 

Prescott :  Conquest  of  Peru. 
Lockhart :  Life  of  Scott. 
Morley:  English  Men  of  Letters. 
Palmer :  Life  of  Alice  Freeman  Palmer. 
Allen:  The  Choir  Invisible. 
Dickens :  Hard  Times;  Barnaby  Rudge. 
Eliot:  Adam  Bede. 
Hardy:  Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd; 

The  Return  of  the  Native. 
Trollope:  Barchester  Towers. 
Aldrich:  Marjorie  Daw. 
Allen :  Flute  and  Violin. 
Anstey:  The  Black  Poodle. 
Balzac :  A  Passion  of  the  Desert. 

La  Grande  Breteche. 
Bunner:  A  Sisterly  Scheme. 
Dickens:  A  Child's  Dream  of  a  Star. 
Freeman:  A  New  England  Nun. 
The  Revolt  of  Mother. 
Garland:  Up  the  Coolly. 
Hardy:  The  Withered  Arm. 

The  Three  Strangers. 

The  Melancholy  Hussar  of  the 

German  Legion. 
Harte:   The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat. 

Tennessee's  Partner. 
Hawthorne:  The  Great  Stone  Face. 

The  Birthmark. 

Hewlett:  Madonna  of  the  Peach  Tree. 
Hope  (Hawkins):  The  Dolly  Dialogues 

(selections). 

Irving:  Rip  Van  Winkle. 
Kipling:  The  Man  who  would  be  King. 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

THE  SHORT-STORY:  Kipling:  Without  Benefit  of  Clergy. 

Matthews:  Vignettes  of  Manhattan  (se- 
lections). 
Maupassant:  The  Necklace. 

The  Piece  of  String. 

The   Man    with   the    Blue 

Eyes. 

The  Coward. 

Merimee:  Mateo  Falcone. 
Morrison:   On  the  Stairs. 
The  Omnibus. 
Poe:  The  Gold-Bug. 

The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher. 
The  Cask  of  Amontillado. 
Smith:  A  Night  Out. 

Boggs  becomes  Dramatic  ("The 

Wood-Fire  in  No.  3  ")• 
Stevenson:  The  Merry  Men. 

Markheim. 

Stockton:  The  Lady  or  the  Tiger? 
Turgeneff :  A  Lear  of  the  Steppes. 

The  Bible :  Ruth,  Esther,  and  selections  ad 

lib. 

Gesta  Romanorum:  selections. 
The  Arabian  Nights:  selections. 

My  obligations  are  many.  One  cannot  discuss  the 
principles  herein  considered  and  fail  to  recognize  indebt- 
edness to  Professors  Barrett  Wendell  and  Bliss  Perry 
of  Harvard,  Professor  Charles  S.  Baldwin  of  Columbia, 
and  many  others.  I  have  endeavored,  in  the  text,  to 
give  credit  for  such  indebtedness,  and  in  the  footnotes 
I  have  specified  the  various  publishers  who  have  cour- 
teously allowed  the  use  of  copyrighted  matter. 

I  take   this  opportunity  also  of  expressing  to  my 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

colleagues  —  especially  to  Samuel  E.  Allen,  M.A.  and 
George  B.  Dutton,  Ph.D.  —  my  obligations  for  their 
valuable  and  generous  assistance  in  preparing  this 
work  for  publication. 

C.  L.  M. 
WILLIAMS  COLLEGE 
WlLLIAMSTOWN,  MASSACHUSETTS 
April  22,  1911 


1 


THE  RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES 
OF  NARRATION 

CHAPTER  I 
DEFINITION 

Narration  "recounts  the  particulars  of  an  occurrence,  or  makes  a 
statement  of  facts,  in  chronological  order."  —  Standard  Dictionary. 

Narration  is  "an  orderly  recital  of  the  details  and  particulars  of 
some  transaction  or  event,  or  of  some  series  of  transactions  or  events." 
—  Century  Dictionary. 

"Narration  is  the  recounting,  in  succession,  of  the  particulars  that 
together  make  up  a  transaction."  —  GENUNG:  Working  Principles  of 
Rhetoric. 

AN  examination  of  these  three  definitions,  which  may 
fairly  be  called  typical,  reveals  the  two  underlying  prin- 
ciples of  all  narrative  writing:  (a)  the  conception  of  a 
unit,  variously  termed  an  "occurrence,"  a  "transac- 
tion," and  an  "event";  and  (b)  the  successive  details 
that  constitute  this  unit,  arranged  in  their  chronological 
order,  in  an  "orderly  recital,"  in  a  "series." 

From  these  essential  parts  of  the  three  definitions  in 
question  it  becomes  apparent  that  the  time-element 
plays  a  very  important  part  in  the  process  of  narration, 
indeed,  that  it  is  fundamental.  The  unit  variously  de- 
nominated as  an  "occurrence,"  a  "transaction,"  an 
"event,"  is  from  its  very  nature  temporal.  It  indicates  a 
circumstance  that  presents  itself  in  the  course  of  time; 
it  is  generally  a  part  of  some  larger  temporal  whole,  — 
it  may  be  of  an  era,  or  of  a  life,  or  of  a  mere  brief  experi- 


'' PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

ence,  as  illustrated  respectively  by  Gibbon's  Decline  and 
Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire,  Southey's  Life  of  Nelson,  or 
Hawthorne's  Ambitious  Guest.  And  in  the  second  part 
of  the  definitions,  the  various  terms  "chronological 
order,"  "orderly  recital,"  and  "series"  show  again  that 
time  is  an  ultimate  element,  essential  in  that  it  deter- 
mines the  very  order  of  the  constituent  parts.  As  logical 
relations  underlie  argumentative  composition,  and  as 
spatial  relations  often  are  essential  to  expository  com- 
position, so  the  various  considerations  that  arise  in  con- 
nection with  narration  depend  fundamentally  upon  the 
time-element. 

In  illustration  of  what  has  been  presented  with  refer- 
ence to  the  definition  of  narration  let  us  examine  rather 
analytically  two  or  three  examples.  The  first  is  taken 
quite  at  random  from  a  daily  paper. 

LEAPS  TO  HIS  DEATH 

Middletown,  Del.,  July  11.  Imagining  he  saw  the  headlight 
of  another  engine  coming  toward  him,  Randolph  A.  Wheeler,  a 
Delaware  railroad  engineer,  driving  a  freight  train,  clapped  on 
the  brakes  and  leaped  from  the  cab.  Startled  by  the  sudden  ac- 
tion  of  the  engineer,  the  fireman,  without  looking  for  the  dan- 
ger, also  threw  himself  from  the  engine.  The  train  came  to  a 
standstill  and  the  conductor  was  surprised  to  find  the  engine- 
r;il»  deserted.  The  dead  engineer  and  the  injured  fireman  were 
then  found  lying  along  the  track. 

Here,  to  apply  the  terminology  used  in  the  definition 
quoted  from  the  Standard  Dictionary,  we  have  (a)  the. 
"occurrence,"  which  we  may  perhaps  entitle  "The 
tragic  dwit.Ii  of  Randolph  A.  Wheeler,"  and  which  we 
may  view  as  but  part  of  a  larger  temporal  whole,  "The 
life  of  Randolph  A.  Wheeler";  or,  from  another  point  of 


DEFINITION  3 

view,  "The  events  of  July  11."  More  than  this  "occur- 
rence," we  have  also  (b)  the  "particulars  of  the  occur- 
rence arranged  in  chronological  order,"  viz.:  (1)  the 
fancied  vision  of  the  approaching  engine;  (2)  the  clap- 
ping on  of  the  brakes;  (3)  the  leap  from  the  cab;  (4)  the 
fireman's  fright;  (5)  the  sudden  stopping  of  the  train; 
(6)  the  conductor's  amazement  at  finding  the  cab  de- 
serted; (7)  the  discovery  of  the  dead  engineer  and  the 
injured  fireman. 

The  same  fundamental  elements  are  equally  evident 
in  more  extended  narrative  writing;  the  short-story,  for 
example,  as  illustrated  in  Maupassant's  Necklace.  In 
this  case,  applying  the  terms  of  the  second  definition, 
that  from  the  Century  Dictionary,  we  discover  the 
"transaction"  or  "event,"  in  the  episode  indicated  by 
the  title,  —  the  loss  and  restoration  of  the  diamond 
necklace.  The  "details"  and  "particulars"  presented 
in  "orderly  recital"  appear  in  the  various  items  of  the 
story  itself,  as  contained  in  the  sections  into  which  it  is 
usually  subdivided.  They  may  be  indicated  by  the  fol- 
lowing titles:  — 

I.  Madame  Loisel's  Discontent. 

II.  The  Invitation  to  the  Ministerial  Ball. 

III.  The  Loan  of  the  Necklace, 

IV.  The  Loss. 

V.   The  Restitution. 
VI.    The  Ten-Years'  Struggle. 
VII.   Revelation. 

„  Again,  we  may  discover  the  same  underlying  elements 
in  the  most  elaborate  forms  of  narrative  literature,  — 
the  novel,  for  example.  If  we  examine  George  Eliot's 
Silas  Marner  in  the  light  of  Professor  Genung's  defini- 
tion, we  may  say  that  the  story  in  its  entirety  concerns 


4     RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

a  "transaction,"  which  we  may  entitle  "The  regener- 
ation of  Silas  Marner,  the  weaver  of  Raveloe,"  a  com- 
plete episode  occurring  within  the  broader  circle  of 
"rustic  England  in  the  previous  century."  Further- 
more, the  story  consists  in  "recounting  in  succession  the 
particulars  that  together  make  up  this  transaction,"  — 
such  particulars,  —  to  mention  but  a  few  out  of  many, 
—  as  (a)  Marner's  life  at  Lantern  Yard;  (b)  his  removal 
to  Raveloe;  (c)  his  miserly  isolation;  (d)  the  theft  of  his 
gold;  (e)  the  entrance  of  Eppie  into  his  life;  (f)  his  love 
and  care  for  the  child;  (g)  Eppie's  rejection  of  her 
father;  (h)  Marner's  closing  years.  I 

Thus  in  all  forms  of  what  may  be  called  narrative 
composition,  ultimate  analysis  reveals  these  two  funda- 
mental elements,  —  the, unified,  single  occurrence,  and 
the  constituent  details  arranged  in  due  order. 


In  view  of  the  foregoing  considerations,  it  is  interest- 
ing to  observe  how,  at  the  outset,  in  the  very  terms  of 
the  definition,  we  are  confronted  with  the  two  important 
rhetorical  considerations,  unity  and  coherence,  consid- 
erations always  important,  but  from  its  very  character 
peculiarly  essential  to  narrative  writing.  Later  in  the 
discussion  they  will  be  viewed  at  greater  length;  at  this 
point,  however,  they  may  receive  general  consideration. 

In  the  term  " occurrence "  or  "event,"  the  idea  of 
unity  is  implied;  that  is,  of  oneness,  of  subordination  of 
<1< 'tails  to  one  central  idea.  And  in  the  ordering  of  the 
constituent  "particulars  in  their  chronological  succes- 
sion "  lies  the  core  idea  of  coherence;  that  is,  of  marshal- 
ing parts  so  as  to  attain  culmination. 

If  the  writer  has  in  mind  no  clearly  defined  central 
theme,  no  definite  "event,"  his  narrative  will  be  char- 
acterized by  indefiniteness,  by  seemingly  unrelated 


DEFINITION  5 

digressions,  by  apparent  want  of  purpose.  And,  on  the 
other  hand,  carelessness  in  ordering  the  constituent 
details  so  that  the  due  relation  of  parts  is  not  well  de- 
fined results  in  looseness  and  a  general  tone  of  careless- 
ness. The  reader's  attention  is  led  far  afield,  and  the 
story  makes  for  no  distinct  climax. 

The  indefiniteness  resulting  from  failure  to  observe 
the  first  essential  is  illustrated  in  George  Eliot's  Middle- 
march,  in  which  the  simultaneous  existence  of  at  least 
three  sets  of  characters  leaves  the  reader  in  considerable 
doubt  as  to  just  what  constitutes  the  main  theme.  For 
a  similar  reason  some  readers  are  offended  with  De 
Morgan's  Alice-f or- Short:  they  cannot  distinguish  the 
unified  idea  with  which  the  author  is  dealing.  A  nar- 
rative like  Hawthorne's  Scarlet  Letter,  however,  or  a 
successful  biography  like  The  Life  of  Alice  Freeman 
Palmer  has  a  motive  so  distinct  that  essential  unity  of 
composition  is  evident  from  the  outset. 

The  looseness  of  narrative  structure  that  results  from 
inattention  to  the  detail  of  coherence  is  well  exemplified 
in  many  of  Dickens's  works.  More  than  one  reader  of 
Bleak  House  has  speedily  become  so  involved  in  at- 
tempting to  follow  the  varying  fortunes  of  the  cele- 
brated chancery  case,  the  adventures  of  Jo,  of  Lady 
Dedlock,  of  Mr.  Skimpole,  of  the  Snagsbys,  the  Jellybys, 
and  the  Smallweeds,  that  he  has  given  up  in  despair  the 
hopeless  task  of  ever  freeing  himself  from  the  tangle.  On 
the  contrary,  the  directness  with  which  the  successive 
details  of  Treasure  Island  or  of  the  adventures  of  Sherlock 
Holmes  mate  for  their  goal  illustrates  the  effectiveness 
that  conies  from  orderly  arrangement  well  sustained. 
History,  when  wrell  written,  offers  good  evidence  of  how 
much  is  gained  by  narrative  coherence  properly  observed, 
for  in  this  form  of  composition  chronological  order  is 


6    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

supplemented  by  the  exposition  of  cause  and  effect;  the 
historian  shows  wherein  the  events  of  one  period  are  but 
the  logical  consequences  of  those  that  have  preceded. 
Saintsbury  refers  to  this  principle  when  he  writes  of 
Gibbon  that  he  ordered  his  matter  so  effectively  that  the 
result  is  no  mere  congeries  of  unrelated  fact  but  a 
"regular  structure  of  history,  informed  and  governed 
throughout  by  a  philosophic  idea."  Similarly  in  histories 
of  English  literature  the  writer,  in  grouping  his  discus- 
sion under  various  "periods,"  is  unconsciously  marshal- 
ing the  various  details  into  the  proper  array  to  render 
effective  his  narrative  treatment.  In  this  case,  as  in  the 
case  of  the  historian,  he  not  only  shows  the  chronological 
sequence  of  the  Elizabethan,  Puritan,  Restoration,  and 
Eighteenth  Century  eras,  but  he  makes  his  sequence 
more  effective  by  showing  that  one  stage  of  literary  ac- 
tivity^ prepares  the  way  fcfr  its  successor  and  merges  into 
it  without  jar  or  interruption.  All  this  somewhat  criti- 
cal consideration  is  reducible  to  a  proper  regard  for  the 
second  requirement  that  we  have  found  inherent  in  the 
very  definition  of  narration. 

NARRATION  IN  ITS  RELATIONS  TO  THE  OTHER 
FORMS  OF  DISCOURSE 

I.  Narration  and  Exposition 

In  the  light  of  the  definitions  already  presented,  it  will 
appear  that  narration  differs  essentially  from  exposition, 
or  the  setting  forth  of  a  term,  the  meaning  or  application 
of  which  may  not  be  clear.  In  the  one  case  we  are  con- 
cerned with  the  temporal  relations  of  one  part  to  an- 
other, with  the  sequence  of  event  after  event;  in  the 
other,  witH  logical  relations,  cause  and  effect,  significa- 
tion or  extent  of  terms,  —  with  the  process  of  elucida- 


DEFINITION  7 

tion.  For  instance,  the  following  paragraph  from  Bryce's 
American  Commonwealth  presents  an  exposition  of  the 
term  "the  general  education  of  the  American  people"; 
that  is,  it  sets  forth  that  term  for  the  purpose  of  increased 
clearness  of  apprehension. 

The  Americans  are  an  educated  people,  compared  with  the 
whole  mass  of  the  population  in  any  European  country  except 
Switzerland,  parts  of  Germany,  Iceland,  and  Scotland;  that  is 
to  say,  the  average  of  knowledge  is  higher,  the  habit  of  reading 
and  thinking  more  generally  diffused,  than  in  any  other  coun- 
try. (I  speak,  of  course,  of  the  native  Americans,  excluding 
negroes  and  recent  immigrants.)  They  know  the  Constitution 
of  their  own  country,  they  follow  public  affairs,  they  join  in 
local  government  and  learn  from  it  how  government  must  be 
carried  on,  and  in  particular  how  discussion  must  be  conducted 
in  meetings,  and  its  results  tested  in  elections.  The  Town 
Meeting  has  been  the  most  perfect  school  of  self-government  in 
any  modern  country.  In  villages,  they  still  exercise  their 
minds  on  theological  questions,  debating  points  of  Christian 
doctrine  with  no  small  acuteness.  Women,  in  particular, 
though  their  chief  reading  is  fiction  and  theology,  pick  up  at 
the  public  schools  and  from  the  popular  magazines  far  more 
miscellaneous  information  than  the  women  of  any  European 
country  possess,  and  this  naturally  tells  on  the  intelligence  of 
the  men.1 

The  systematic  and  orderly  character  of  the  expository 
method  as  illustrated  in  this  paragraph  will  be  apparent 
from  a  glance  at  the  skeleton  that  underlies  the  selec- 
tion:— 

GENERAL  EDUCATION  OF  THE  AMERICAN  PEOPLE 

I.   Comparison  with  education  among  Europeans. 
II.   General  information  among  Americans. 

1  From  The  American  Commonwealth.  Copyright,  1894.  Used  by 
permission  of  the  publishers,  The  Macmillan  Company. 


8     RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

A.   On  political  matters. 

1.  Knowledge  of  the  Constitution. 

2.  Familiarity  with  public  affairs. 

3.  Knowledge  of  self  government. 

Participation  in  government,  public  discus- 
sions, etc. 
B.   On  theological  matters. 

Frequent  discussions  of  doctrinal  questions. 
HI.   Unusual  intelligence  of  American  women. 

A.  General  reading. 

1.  Fiction  and  theology. 

2.  Current  magazine  literature. 

B.  Public  school  education. 

C.  Influence  on  men. 

From  this  outline  it  is  clear  that  the  function  of  the 
passage  in  question  is  to  set  forth  the  coordination  and 
subordination  of  the  various  constituent  elements  that 
enter  into  the  scope  of  the  term  under  consideration. 
After  reading  the  paragraph  one  understands  more 
clearly  what  constitutes  the  "general  education  of  the 
American  people,"  what  the  writer  means  by  the  term. 

The  entire  work  from  which  the  paragraph  is  selected, 
The  American  Commonwealth  itself,  presents  a  more 
complete  and  typical  example  of  the  expository  method. 
It  is,  in  fact,  but  an  elucidation  of  the  term  indicated  by 
the  title;  it  considers  the  subject  in  all  of  its  essential 
component  parts  —  state  and  national  government, 
political  parties,  social  organization,  etc.,  etc.  Narra- 
tion, on  the  other  hand,  were  it  directed  at  the  same 
subject,  would  note  the  chronological  order  of  successive 
events,  and  would  produce  a  history  of  the  United  States. 
Bryce  is  an  expositor;  Fiske,  a  narrator. 

Matthew  Arnold's  famous  essay,  Sweetness  and  Light, 
is  another  example  of  the  expository  method.  It  ex- 


DEFINITION  9 

pounds  the  term  "culture,"  defines  it,  analyzes  it,  differ- 
entiates it  from  the  antonym  "Philistinism,"  or  modern 
materialism,  and  all  for  greater  clearness  of  comprehen- 
sion on  the  part  of  the  reader. 

Silas  Marner  has  already  been  used  as  an  illustration 
of  the  narrative  method.  Were  a  critic  to  discuss  "the 
regeneration  of  the  weaver  of  Raveloe"  from  the  exposi- 
tory point  of  view,  he  would  endeavor  to  explain  the 
fitness  of  the  word  "regeneration"  as  applied  to  Silas's 
peculiar  spiritual  experiences.  Upon  completing  the  ex- 
position, a  reader,  —  presumably  already  familiar  with 
the  narrative  of  Marner's  life,  —  would  be  satisfied  that 
the  term  had  been  fitly  applied. 

But  all  writing  that  has  for  its  aim  to  set  forth  a  term 
needing  explanation  is  not  of  necessity  so  unmistakably 
expository  as  might  seem  to  be  the  case  from  the  exam- 
ples just  cited.  Exposition  has  many  methods,  and 
among  them  narration  sometimes  plays  a  part,  as  in  the 
following  paragraph  from  The  Mountains  of  California 
by  John  Muir.  The  subject  is  the  life  history  of  a  moun- 
tain lake. 

4 

When  a  mountain  lake  is  born,  —  when,  like  a  young  eye, 
it  first  opens  to  the  light,  —  it  is  an  irregular,  expressionless 
crescent,  enclosed  in  banks  of  rock  and  ice,  —  bare,  glaciated 
rock  on  the  lower  side,  the  rugged  snout  of  a  glacier  on  the 
upper.  In  this  condition  it  remains  for  many  a  year,  until  at 
length,  toward  the  end  of  some  auspicious  cluster  of  seasons, 
the  glacier  recedes  beyond  the  upper  margin  of  the  basin, 
leaving  it  open  from  shore  to  shore  for  the  first  time,  thousands 
of  years  after  its  conception  beneath  the  glacier  that  excavated 
its  basin.  The  landscape,  cold  and  bare,  is  reflected  in  its  pure 
depths;  the  winds  ruffle  its  glassy  surface,  and  the  sun  fills  it 
with  throbbing  spangles,  while  its  waves  begin  to  lap  and  mur- 
mur around  its  leafless  shores,  —  sun  spangles  during  the  day 


10   RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

and  reflected  stars  at  night  its  only  flowers,  the  wind  and  the 
snow  its  only  visitors.  Meanwhile,  the  glacier  continues  to 
recede;  and  numerous  rills,  still  younger  than  the  lake  itself, 
bring  down  glacier-mud,  sand-grains,  and  pebbles,  giving  rise 
to  margin-rings  and  plats  of  soil.  To  these  fresh  soil-beds  comes 
many  a  waiting  plant  —  first,  a  hardy  carex  with  arching 
leaves  and  a  spike  of  brown  flowers;  then,  as  the  seasons  grow 
warmer,  and  the  soil-beds  deeper  and  wider,  other  sedges  take 
their  appointed  places;  and  these  are  joined  by  blue  gentians, 
daisies,  dodecatheons,  violets,  honeyworts,  and  many  a  lowly 
moss.  Shrubs  also  hasten  in  time  to  the  new  gardens,  —  kal- 
mia  with  its  glossy  leaves  and  purple  flowers,  the  arctic  willow, 
making  soft  woven  carpets,  together  with  the  heathy  bryan- 
thus  and  cassiope,  the  fairest  and  dearest  of  them  all.  Insects 
now  enrich  the  air;  frogs  pipe  cheerily  in  the  shallows,  soon  fol- 
lowed by  the  ousel,  which  is  the  first  bird  to  visit  the  glacier 
lake,  as  the  sedge  is  the  first  of  plants. 

So  the  young  lake  grows  in  beauty,  becoming  more  and  more 
humanly  lovable  from  century  to  century.  Groves  of  aspen 
spring  up,  and  hardy  pines,  and  the  hemlock  spruce,  until  it  is 
richly  overshadowed  and  embowered.  But  while  its  shores  are 
being  enriched,  the  soil-beds  creep  out  with  incessant  growth, 
contracting  its  area  while  the  lighter  mud-particles  deposited 
on  the  bottom  cause  it  to  grow  constantly  shallower,  until  at 
length  the  last  remnant  of  the  lake  vanishes,  —  closed  forever 
in  ripe  and  natural  old  age.1 

It  might  seem  at  first  that  this  passage  is  narrative, 
but  a  little  consideration  will  show  that  the  writer's  ulti- 
mate purpose  is  not  to  tell  a  story  about  a  mountain- 
lake;  rather  it  is  to  elucidate  the  geologic  process  of  lake 
formation,  and  for  this  elucidation  he  chooses  the  narra- 
tive form  for  its  greater  dramatic  effect.  That  is,  he  uses 
narrative  means  for  the  better  accomplishment  of  an 

1  From  The  Mountains  of  California,  by  John  Muir.  By  permission 
of  The  Century  Co. 


DEFINITION  11 

expository  end.  So  with  all  passages  of  this  character,  in 
which  the  question  may  arise,  Is  it  narration  (exposi- 
tory) or  exposition  (narrative)?  we  have  but  to  deter- 
mine the  ultimate  purpose  of  the  composition  in  question.  i 

In  determining  this  essential  point  it  is  sometimes  of 
assistance  to  dfecover  whether  the  passage  under  consid- 
eration deals  with  particular,  individual  events,  of  value 
in  and  for  themselves,  or  whether  they  are  general,  typi- 
cal of  the  entire  class  to  which  they  belong.  For  exam- 
ple, contrast  the  following  paragraph  from  Macaulay's 
History  of  England  with  that  already  cited  from  Muir :  — 

But  the  king  suffered  the  auspicious  moment  to  pass  away; 
and  it  never  returned.  In  August,  1643,  he  sate  down  before 
the  city  of  Gloucester.  That  city  was  defended  by  the  inhabi- 
tants and  by  the  garrison,  with  a  determination  such  as  had 
not,  since  the  commencement  of  the  war,  been  shown  by  the 
adherents  of  the  Parliament.  The  emulation  of  London  was 
excited.  The  train-bands  of  the  City  volunteered  to  march 
wherever  their  forces  might  be  required.  A  great  force  was 
speedily  collected,  and  began  to  move  westward.  The  siege  of 
Gloucester  was  raised.  The  Royalists  in  every  part  of  the 
kingdom  were  disheartened:  the  spirit  of  the  Parliamentary 
party  revived;  and  the  apostate  Lords,  who  had  lately  fled 
from  Westminster  to  Oxford,  hastened  back  from  Oxford  to 
Westminster. 

As  forms  of  composition  these  two  passages  are  wholly 
unlike.  Each  is  constructed,  indeed,  on  the  narrative 
principle;  in  each  we  have  the  orderly  recital  of  the 
details  that  constitute  a  transaction,  —  the  one  "The 
life-story  of  a  mountain  lake,"  the  other  "The  siege  of 
Gloucester,"  —  but  in  the  selection  from  Macaulay  the 
details  are  specific  and  particular  in  that  they  apply  to 
an  episode  of  the  Civil  War,  to  the  siege  of  a  certain  city 
in  1643,  not  to  wars  and  sieges  in  general;  whereas  the 


12  RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

passage  from  Muir,  although  chronological  in  arrange- 
ment, refers  to  a  mountain  lake  in  general,  and  is  appli- 
cable to  any  and  all  mountain  lakes  of  a  certain  charac- 
ter. The  purpose 'of  the  paragraph  is  to  explain  the 
term  "mountain  lake,"  to  elucidate  the  process  of 
formation.  In  view,  then,  of  the  fact  that  the  passage 
from  Macaulay  concerns  itself  with  a  specific  event, 
that  its  main  purpose  is  not  to  explain,  not  to  interpret 
the  subject  into  more  intelligible  terms,  but  rather  to 
chronicle  the  details  that  constitute  the  event  in  ques- 
tion, one  does  not  hesitate  to  class  it  as  narration.  And 
as  the  passage  from  Muir,  although  seemingly  specific  in 
application,  is  in  reality  general;  as,  although  it  seems  to 
concern  itself  with  the  details  of  an  occurrence,  it  in  fact 
sets  forth  a  process  true  of  each  member  of  a  class;  as  it 
is  merely  a  rather  dramatic  method  of  explanation,  one 
does  not  hesitate  to  call  it  exposition.  In  the  end,  the 
question  of  ultimate jpurpose  determines  the  rhetorical 
classification. 


i. 


II.  Narration  and  Argumentation 

Between  narration  and  argumentation  there  is  less 
likelihood  of  confusion  than  between  narration  and  ex- 
position. Argument  has  to  do  with  demonstrating  the 
truth  or  falsity  of  a  given  proposition,  and  between  this 
,  process  and  the  orderly  arrangement  of  the  temporal 
(details  that  constitute  an  event  there  is  little  in  com- 
mon. Yet  it  is  clear  that  narration  will  often  serve  as  an 
effective  method  of  establishing  the  premises  that  lead 
to  a  conclusion.  To  show  the  guilt  of  an  accused  person 
it  may  be  necessary  to  narrate  the  incidents  upon  which 
the  charge  is  based;  to  demonstrate  the  futility  of  a  pro- 
posed act  of  legislation  the  citation  of  the  instances  in 
which  similar  legislation  has  in  the  past  proved  ineffect- 


DEFINITION  13 

ive  may  furnish  the  surest  kind  of  evidence.  In  all  such 
cases,  however,  one  will  do  well  to  bear  in  mind  that  the 
ujtimate_Qurpose  of  the  forensic  or  of  the  appeal  is  to 
establish  the  proposition  at  issue,  and  that,  in  conse- 
quence, although  the  means  may  be  narrative  in  charac- 
ter, the_endjs  argumentative. 

Illustrations  of  this  narrative  form  for  argumentative 
ends  abound  in  forensic  literature.  For  example,  in  his 
famous  Defence  of  Lord  Gordon  Lord  Erskine  follows  in 
detail  the  actions  of  John  Hay  from  one  day  to  another 
during  the  disturbances  in  London,  chronicling  inci- 
dent after  incident,  but  all  for  the  purpose  of  proving 
that  the  witness  was  a  popish  spy,  that  his  statements 
were  thoroughly  self -contradictory,  that  his  testimony 
should  be  rejected.  Added  effect  results  from  the  nar- 
rative presentation,  but  the  end  in  view  is  conviction 
by  means  of  refutation;  in  other  words,  it  is  ultimately 
argumentative . 

III.  Narration  and  Description 

Exposition  and  argumentation  have  been  grouped  to- 
gether as  constituting  "logical  composition"  on  the 
ground  that  each  appeals  to  the  laws  of  thought  rather 
than  to  the  aesthetic  or  appreciative  sense.  Descrip- 
tion, on  the  other  hand,  has  with  narration  been  termed 
"the  literature  of  feeling,"  in  that  "personal  experience 
of  individual  people  is  the  subject  matter  of  all  this  kind 
of  writing."  l  It  does  not  matter  whether  the  writer  is 
narrating  his  own  experiences  or  spinning  a  yarn  of 
adventure  in  search  of  treasure  hidden  in  some  imagin- 
ary island  in  the  Spanish  Main;  whether  he  is  picturing 
the  house  of  his  neighbor  across  the  way  or  essaying  to 
phrase  in  words  his  vision  of  some  Castle  Perilous,  some 
1  Forms  of  Prose  Literature:  Gardiner,  p.  106. 


14   RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

chamber-tower  in  Astolat;  —  in  any  case,  he  finds  his 
material  in  the  constant  stream  of  consciousness  that  we 
call  experience.2  But  for  another  reason,  too,  narration 
comes  into  closer  relations  with  descriptionjthan  with 
the  other  literary  forms.  Narration,  presenting  the  vari- 
I  ous  details  of  an  event,  gains  in  effectiveness  if  these 
details  can  be  projected  against  suitable  background. 
Such  background  description  provides,  and,  in  conse- 
quence, is  in  almost  constant  attendance  upon  narration. 
It  is  true,  we  can  find  examples  of  pure  description,  of 
description  drawn  solely  for  the  sake  of  aesthetic  delight 
in  a  picture  presented  with  no  thought  of  rendering 
more  effective  an  expository,  an  argumentative,  or  a  nar- 
rative idea.  The  following  lines  present  a  good  instance 
of  pure  description,  —  a  picture  and  nothing  else,  for  the 
selection  is  complete  in  itself :  — 

THE  SWEAT  SHOP 

Low  ceilings,  mildewed  with  the  reeking  damp, 

The  walls  hung  thick  with  ill-assorted  clothes; 
Small  window-panes  with  frames  that  vex  and  cramp, 

Small,  sputtering  gas-lights,  bracketed  in  rows. 
The  noisy  whirr  of  wheels  and  leathern  bands 

That  turn  incessantly.  The  snap  of  shears 
Wielded  by  large,  rough-knuckled,  grimy  hands, 

And  through  the  door,  to  straining,  eager  ears, 
The  hum  of  traffic  and  the  huckster's  cry  — 

And  all  about,  packed  almost  back  to  back, 
Bent  forms  and  brows,  and  pallid  lips  that  sigh 

From  wretched  torture  of  the  daily  rack. 

—  LURANA  W.  SHELDON  in  the  N.  Y.  Times. 

Brander  Matthews's  Vignettes  of  Manhattan  are,  as  the 
title  implies,  primarily  descriptive,  and  the  narrative 
thread  that,  runs  through  each  is  not  essential.  But  liter- 

2  For  a  full  consideration  of  this  topic  see  Gardiner's  Forms  of  Prose 
Literature,  pp.  105-113. 


DEFINITION  15 

ature  of  this  sort  is  unusual.  The  principal  function  of 
description  is  to  serve  as  an  accessory  to  other  forms  of 
discourse. 

Subordinate  to  narration  as  description  usually  is, 
however,  we  note,  before  leaving  the  consideration  of 
these  general  relations,  that  description,  for  its  own 
greater  effectiveness,  often  takes  the  narrative  form;  the 
details  of  a  scene,  instead  of  being  conceived  of  as  mere 
data  of  form  and  space,  become  instinct  with  life,  engage 
in  action,  progress  on  towards  the  completion  of  some 
occurrence.  For  example:  — 

I  was  coming  home  from  some  place  at  the  end  of  the  world, 
about  three  o'clock  of  a  black  winter  morning,  and  my  way  lay 
through  a  part  of  the  town  where  there  was  literally  nothing 
to  be  seen  but  lamps.  Street  after  street,  and  all  the  folks 
asleep  —  street  after  street,  all  lighted  up  as  if  for  a  procession 
and  all  as  empty  as  a  church  —  till  at  last  I  got  into  that  state 
of  mind  when  a  man  listens  and  listens  and  begins  to  long  for 
the  sight  of  a  policeman.  All  at  once,  I  saw  two  figures:  one  a 
little  man  who  was  stumping  along  eastward  at  a  good  walk, 
and  the  other  a  girl  of  may  be  eight  or  ten  who  was  running  as 
hard  as  she  was  able  down  a  cross  street.  Well,  sir,  the  two  ran 
into  one  another  naturally  enough  at  the  corner;  and  then 
came  the  horrible  part  of  the  thing;  for  the  man  trampled 
calmly  over  the  child's  body  and  left  her  screaming  on  the 
ground.  It  sounds  nothing  to  hear,  but  it  was  hellish  to  see.  It 
was  n't  like  a  man ;  it  was  like  some  damned  Juggernaut.  I 
gave  a  view  halloa,  took  to  my  heels,  collared  my  gentleman, 
and  brought  him  back  to  where  was  already  quite  a  group  about 
the  screaming  child.  He  was  perfectly  cool  and  made  no  resist- 
ance, t}ut  gave  me  one  look,  so  ugly  that  it  brought  out  the 
sweat  on  me  like  running.  The  people  who  had  turned  out 
were  the  girl's  own  family;  and  pretty  soon  the  doctor,  for 
whom  she  had  been  sent,  put  in  an  appearance.  Well,  the  child 
was  not  much  the  worse,  more  frightened,  according  to  the 


16  RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

Sawbones,  and  there  you  might  have  supposed  would  have 
been  an  end  to  it.  But  there  was  one  curious  circumstance.  I 
had  taken  a  loathing  to  my  gentleman  at  first  sight.  So  had 
the  child's  family,  which  was  only  natural.  But  the  doctor's 
case  was  what  struck  me.  He  was  the  usual  cut-and-dried 
apothecary,  of  no  particular  age  and  color,  with  a  strong  Edin- 
burgh accent,  and  about  as  emotional  as  a  bagpipe.  Well,  sir, 
he  was  like  the  rest  of  us;  every  time  he  looked  at  my  prisoner 
I  saw  that  Sawbones  turn  sick  and  white  with  the  desire  to 
kill  him.1 

In  this  passage  it  is  not  difficult  to  discover  two  wholly 
different  rhetorical  elements:  on  the  one  hand,  the 
(  orderly  arrangement  of  the  narrator's  experiences  in  the 
early  morning,  the  sudden  glimpse  of  the  two  figures,  the 
collision,  the  capture,  the  arrival  of  the  doctor,  —  all 
prosaic  elements  of  the  typical  narrative;  on  the  other 
hand,  the  impression  left  on  the  reader's  imagination  — 
the  impression  of  the  hellish  brutality  that  character- 
ized Hyde,  that  produced  loathing  and  murderous  hate 
in  the  beholder.  Nor  can  there  be  any  doubt  that  to 
create  this  impression  of  loathing  was  Stevenson's  ulti- 
mate purpose.  The  episode  has  no  value  save  as  a  pic- 
ture of  Hyde,  disgusting,  loathsome.  To  make  his  pic- 
ture effective,  the  author  elects  to  cast  it  into  narrative 
form,  but  it  is  in  essence  description. 

Another  example  of  the  same  principle  may  be  found 
in  the  famous  chapter  in  Dickens's  Tale  of  Two  Cities, 
entitled  "The  Grindstone,"  where  the  gruesome  picture 
of  blood  and  frenzy  is  cast  in  the  form  of  a  detailed  inci- 
dent. Just  as  Muir  found  the  mood  of  narration  best 
suited  to  the  clear  exposition  of  how  mountain  lakes  come 
into  being,  just  as  Erskine  could  make  his  proof  more 

1  Stevenson's  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde.  By  permission  of  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons. 


DEFINITION  17 

convincing  by  throwing  it  into  the  form  of  chronicle,  so 
Dickens,  in  developing  the  thought  that  the  scene  about 
the  grindstone  was  a  mad  orgy  of  savagery  and  passion, 
conceived  of  the  picture  as  a  transaction  and  arranged 
the  successive  details  as  in  narration.  In  function,  there- 
fore, the  passage  is  narrative  description. 

How  different  in  effect  is  the  plain,  straightforward 
manner  of  conventional  description  will  appear  in  pas- 
sages like  the  following,  in  which  there  is  no  suggestion 
of  the  progress  of  successive  details  as  in  an  event :  — 

There  lived  in  those  days  round  the  corner  —  in  Bishops- 
gate  Street  Without  —  one  Brogley,  sworn  broker  and  ap- 
praiser, who  kept  a  shop  where  every  description  of  second- 
hand furniture  was  exhibited  in  the  most  uncomfortable 
aspect,  and  under  circumstances  and  in  combinations  the  most 
completely  foreign  to  its  purpose.  Dozens  of  chairs  hooked  on 
to  washing-stands,  which  with  difficulty  poised  themselves  on 
the  shoulders  of  sideboards,  which  in  their  turn  stood  on  the 
wrong  side  of  dining-tables,  gymnastic  with  their  legs  upward 
on  the  tops  of  other  dining-tables,  were  among  its  most  reason- 
able arrangements.  A  banquet  array  of  dish-covers,  wine- 
glasses, and  decanters  was  generally  to  be  seen  spread  forth 
upon  the  bosom  of  a  four-post  bedstead,  for  the  entertainment 
of  such  genial  company  as  half  a  dozen  pokers  and  a  hall  lamp. 
A  set  of  window  curtains,  with  no  windows  belonging  to  them, 
would  be  seen  gracefully  draping  a  barricade  of  chests  of 
drawers,  loaded  with  little  jars  from  chemists'  stops;  while  a 
homeless  hearth-rug,  severed  from  its  natural  companion  the 
fireside,  braved  the  shrewd  east  wind  in  its  adversity,  and 
trembled  in  melancholy  accord  with  the  shrill  complainings  of 
a  cabinet  piano,  wasting  away,  a  string  a  day,  and  faintly 
resounding  to  the  noises  of  the  street  in  its  jangling  and  dis- 
tracted brain.  Of  motionless  clocks  that  never  stirred  a  finger, 
and  seemed  as  incapable  of  being  successfully  wound  up  as  the 
pecuniary  affairs  of  their  former  owners,  there  was  always  a 
great  choice  in  Mr.  Brogley 's  shop;  andj^various  looking- 


18  RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

glasses,  accidentally  placed  at  compound  interest  of  reflection 
and  refraction,  presented  to  the  eye  an  eternal  perspective  of 
bankruptcy  and  ruin.1 

IV.  Summary 

In  summing  up  these  general  remarks  on  narration  in 
its  relations  to  the  other  forms  of  prose  discourse,  it  is, 
perhaps,  well  to  observe  that  one  can  overrate  the  im- 
portance of  the  distinctions  between  exposition,  argu- 
mentation, description,  and  narration.  It  is  not  for  a 
moment  to  be  assumed  that  the  great  masters  of  prose 
deliberate  with  poised  pen  whether  they  are  utilizing 
exposition  or  argument,  whether  their  word-pictures  are 
simple  description  or  are  shaded  by  the  narrative 
method.  Their  problem  is  rather,  What  is  the  most  ef- 
fective method  of  presenting  thought?  A  writer  with  a 
vivid  power  of  visualization,  a  sense  of  concreteness,  will 
choose  to  expound  a  theory  or  a  process  by  means  of  a 
picture  or  through  the  medium  of  a  story.  Another, 
whose  gifts  are  of  the  logical,  abstract  order,  will  set 
forth  the  same  theory  or  process  by  orderly,  clear,  but 
unimaginative  exposition.  Yet  both  will  write  effec- 
tively. An  exposition  that  would  be  suitable  for  the 
Scientific  American  would  be  out  of  place  in  St.  Nicholas. 
Means,  methods,  must  yield  to  ends. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  is  sometimes  a  tendency 
towards  the  other  extreme;  a  tendency  to  argue  that 
these  rhetorical  distinctions  have  no  ultimate  value,  that 
they  are  mere  academic  subtleties.  This  is,  in  its  way, 
as  fallacious  as  to  overestimate  their  importance.  The 
distinctions  between  methods  are  useful  largely  to  the 
student  and  to  the  critic,  it  is  true,  but  to  them  they 
certainly  possess  practical  value.  If  definite  character- 

1  Dickens's  Dombey  and  Son. 


DEFINITION  19 

istic  advantages  do  belong  to  one  form  of  discourse  as 
compared  with  another,  the  student  of  literature  can 
more  judicially  estimate  the  work  of  a  literary  master 
when  he  appreciates  wherein  the  master  utilizes  the 
rhetorical  opportunities  that  lie  open  to  him.  His  criti- 
cism becomes  more  truly  scientific  and  not  merely  a 
welter  of  impressions.  Distinctions  of  method  are  not  the 
mere  wire-drawn  subtleties  of  theory. 


CHAPTER  II 
ANALYSIS    OF    THE    NARRATIVE    FORM 

IT  is  evident  from  the  definition  of  narration  that  the 
.main  details  constituting  the  occurrence  will  vary  in 
complexity  as  the  discourse  itself  varies  in  length  and 
completeness.  The  main  details  of  an  extended  novel, 
for  instance,  will  be  not  only  more  numerous  but  indi- 
vidually more  complex  than  will  those  of  a  brief  account 
like  that  cited  on  page  2.  And,  as  the  principles  of  rhe- 
torical structure  vary  with  the  complexity  of  the  dis- 
course, we  may  at  this  point  do  well  to  analyze  in  some 
detail  the. matter  of  narrative  form. 

To  begin  with  the  simplest  complete  form  of  composi- 
tion, —  the  sentence,  —  let  us  take  the  following  pas- 
sage from  the  Book  of  Acts :  — 

Now  while  Peter  was  much  perplexed  in  himself  what  the 
vision  which  he  had  seen  might  mean,  behold,  the  men  that 
were  sent  by  Cornelius,  having  made  inquiry  for -Simon's 
house,  stood  before  the  gate,  and  called  and  asked  whether 
Simon,  which  was  surnamed  Peter,  were  lodging  there. 

The( entire  occurrence)  here  presented  may  be  entitled 
"The  Arrival  of  the  Messengers  at  the  House  of  Simon," 
and  the  essential  parts  are:  (i)  Peter's  perplexity;  (ii) 
The  arrival  of  the  messengers;  and  (iii)  Their  inquiry. 
Of  these  (i)  is  temporally  subordinate  to  (ii)  and  (iii), 
which  are  temporally  coordinate  with  each  other.  A  fur- 
ther analysis  would  show  that  in  (i)  there  are  two  nar- 
rative subdivisions:  (a)  Peter's  vision,  and  (b)  his  con- 


ANALYSIS  OF  THE  NARRATIVE  FORM       21 

sequent  wonder  as  to  its  portent;  that  in  (ii)  there  are 
three  further  units  :  (a)  the  dispatch  of  the  messengers 
by  Cornelius,  (b)  their  inquiries  as  to  the  location  of 
Simon's  house,  and  (c)  their  arrival  at  the  gate.  Or, 
to  represent  the  respective  coordinations  and  subordin- 
ations graphically  :  — 

I.   Peter's  perplexity. 

(a)  His  vision. 

(b)  His  wonder  as  to  its  portent.  > 
II.   The  arrival  of  the  messengers. 

(a)  Their  dispatch  by  Cornelius. 

(b)  Their  inquiries  as  to  Simon's  house. 

(c)  Their  arrival  at  his  house. 
III.   Their  inquiries  at  the  door. 

In  this  case  the  stages  indicated  by  the  Roman  nu- 
merals constitute  the  particulars  that  make  up  the  oc- 
currence signified  by  the  title,  —  particulars  represented 
in  the  original  passage  by  individual  clauses.  But  some- 
times the  exigencies  of  composition  may  suppress  clauses 
into  phrasal  form,  as  illustrated  in  the  following  :  — 

The  apostles,  wjien  they  were  returned,  declared  unto  him 
what  things  thev  VmH  (jone-  And  he  took  them,  and  .withdrew 
apart  to  a  city  calleclJBethsaida.  But  the  multitudes  gerceivmg 
it  followejd  him!  and  he  wetcomedgthem.  and  sjjake  totEem  of 

the  kingdom  'of  God,  and  them  thaj:  had  nee'd  of  heajing  he 
i-  i  j  ' 


Examination  of  this  passage  will  show  seven  main 
details,  or  units,  coordinated  into  principal  clauses  (indi- 
cated by  the  principal  verbs,  declared,  took,  withdrew, 
followed,  welcomed,  spake,  and  healed)  ;  three  others  in 
subordinated  form  (indicated  in  the  dependent  clauses 
"when  .  .  .  returned,"  "what  .  .  .  done,"  and  "that 
.  .  .  healing");  and  two  suppressed  into  participial 


22   RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

phrase  form  (called  and  perceiving).  Of  course  it  would 
be  possible  to  carry  the  analysis  even  farther  and  to 
show  how  the  adjectives,  adverbs,  and  other  parts  of 
speech  are  in  truth  highly  condensed  predications,  in 
which  we  can  trace  ultimate  narrative  elements.  But  for 
practical  purposes  the  examination  need  go  no  farther 
fnan  the  complete  independent  'statements,  which, 
therefore,  we  might  term  the  basis  of  all  narrative  dis- 
course. These  basal  units  combine  into  greater  and  more 
complex  units,  and  ultimately  take  form  in  narrative 
episodes,  each  complete  in  itself.  Beyond  that,  a  num- 
ber of  such  episodes  may  combine  in  a  more  extended 
group,  again  complete;  and  these  groups  in  still  larger, 
until  we  reach  a  complete  narrative  form  like  the  novel 
or  the  biography. 

A  good  example  of  the  simplest  complete  form  into 
which  the  ultimate  narrative  elements  combine  is^  pre- 
sented in  the  ordinary  paragraph  item  of  the  daily  paper, 
as  in  the  following:  — 

An  executive  session  of  the  Joint  Investigating  Committee, 
authorized  to  investigate  and  report  on  the  finances  of  the  city, 
was  held  in  the  Murray  Hill  Hotel  yesterday. 

The  Mountain  Ash  male  choir,  a  famous  organization  of 
Welsh  miners,  sailed  on  the  steamer  Adriatic  to-day  for  a  tour 
of  the  United  States.  They  have  been  invited  to  sing  at  the 
White  House. 

Football  practice  began  at  the  University  yesterday.  About 
forty  candidates  responded  to  Captain  Young's  call.  The 
team  is  greatly  weakened  by  the  graduation  of  last  year's 
class. 

It  is  not  essential  to  the  item  that,  as  in  the  cases 
just  cited,  it  should  be  limited  to  a  single  sentence  or  to  a 


ANALYSIS  OF  THE  NARRATIVE  FORM       23 

brief  paragraph,  but  it  is  essential  that  it  be  complete, 
and,  more  than  that,  that  it  give  the  impression  of  one- 
ness, not  allowing  the  attention  to  dwell  on  the  corpor- 
ate, individual  character  of  the  constituent  parts.  The 
account  of  Wheeler's  death,  for  example,  quoted  on 
page  2,  although  it  is  composed  of  four  sentences,  is  a 
paragraph  item,  because  we  do  not  dwell  on  the  minor 
particulars  that  were  pointed  out  as  constituting  the 
details  of  the  narrative.  Rather  we  think  of  the  engin- 
eer's tragic  death,  —  a  central  thought,  —  and  the  va- 
rious details  merge  into  the  one  idea.  If,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  writer  had  introduced  the  occurrence  with  an 
account  of  how  Wheeler  had  for  days  been  filled  with  the 
sense  of  impending  disaster  and  how  his  departure  from 
home  on  the  fatal  morning  had  presented  a  dramatic 
scene;  if  the  account  had  contained  a  paragraph  descrip- 
tive of  the  prostration  of  Wheeler's  wife  when  friends 
brought  home  the  news  of  her  husband's  death;  —  then 
the  story  would  have  lost  the  corporate  unity  that 
now  characterizes  it.  Instead  of  our  thinking  of  the 
simple  clause  elements,  we  should  think  of  the  larger 
group  units:  the  engineer's  apprehension;  his  farewell; 
his  death;  the  breaking  of  the  news.  Narrative  of  this 
latter  character,  in  which  we  are  conscious  of  the  some- 
what obtrusive  unity  of  the  individual  particulars  of  the 
'  occurrence,  is  known  aLS^^isodicdiscourse.''  The 
border  line  between  episo(Iiciiarrative~a^nd  the  isolated 
narrative  item  is  not  clearly  defined.  One  reader  will 
rapidly  group  the  details  into  a  single  tableau  and  lose 
sight  of  the  parts  in  the  completeness  of  the  whole. 
Another,  more  analytical  in  temper,  will  dwell  upon 
these  very  parts  and  see  each  in  its  entirety. 

Narrative  of  the  episodic  order  has  already  been  il- 
lustrated by  the  analysis  of  Maupassant's  Necklace  on 


24   RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION     ^ 

page  3.  Further  analysis  would,  of  course,  show  that 
the  story,  like  the  passage  from  the  Book  of  Acts,  is  com- 
posed of  ultimate  narrative  units  phrased  as  simple 
clauses;  but  these  are  not  the  natural  constituent  parts 
into  which  the  story  falls.  We  think  of  it  rather  under 
the  seven  groups  indicated  by  the  sections  into  which  the 
story  has  been  divided.  The  minute  divisions  are  lost 
in  the  larger  group  units. 

The  nature  of  episodic  narrative  may  well  be  illus- 
trated by  the  Parable  of  the  Prodigal  Son  as  contained 
in  the  Gospel  of  Saint  Luke,  especially  if  we  arrange  the 
paragraphs  and  general  grouping  in  accordance  with 
modern  usage,  as  follows:  — 

THE  PRODIGAL  SON 

7.  The  Apportionment  of  the  Property 

A  certain  man  had  two  sons :  and  the  younger  of  them  said  to 
his  father,  "Father,  give  me  the  portion  of  thy  substance  that 
falleth  to  me." 

And  he  divided  unto  them  his  living. 

II.  The  Mis-spent  Life. 

And  not  many  days  after  the  younger  son  gathered  all  to- 
gether, and  took  his  journey  into  a  far  country;  and  there  he 
wasted  his  substance  with  riotous  living. 

And  when  he  had  spent  all,  there  arose  a  mighty  famine  in 
that  country;  and  he  began  to  be  in  want.  And  he  went  and 
joined  himself  to  one  of  the  citizens  of  that  country;  and  he 
sent  him  into  his  fields  to  feed  swine.  And  he  would  fain  have 
been  filled  with  the  husks  that  the  swine  did  eat:  and  no  man 
gave  unto  him. 

But  when  he  came  to  himself  he  said,  "How  many  servants 
of  my  father's  have  bread  enough  and  to  spare,  and  I  perish 
here  with  hunger !  I  will  arise  and  go  to  my  father,  and  will 


ANALYSIS  OF  THE  NARRATIVE  FORM       25 

say  unto  him,  'Father,  I  have  sinned  against  heaven,  and  in 
thy  sight:  I  am  no  more  worthy  to  be  called  thy  son:  make 
me  as  one  of  thy  hired  servants.' " 
And  he  arose,  and  came  to  his  father. 


III.  The  Return 

But  while  he  was  yet  afar  off,  his  father  saw  him,  and  was 
moved  with  compassion,  and  ran,  and  fell  on  his  neck,  and 
kissed  him. 

And  the  son  said  unto  him,  "Father,  I  have  sinned  against 
heaven,  and  in  thy  sight:  I  am  no  more  worthy  to  be  called 
thy  son." 

But  the  father  said  to  his  servants,  "Bring  forth  quickly  the 
best  robe,  and  put  it  on  him;  and  put  a  ring  on  his  hand,  and 
shoes  on  his  feet:  and  bring  the  fatted  calf,  and  kill  it,  and  let 
us  eat,  and  make  merry:  for  this  my  son  was  dead,  and  is  alive 
again;  he  was  lost,  and  is  found." 

And  they  began  to  be  merry. 

IV.  The  Enmity  of  the  Elder  Brother 

Now  his  elder  son  was  in  the  field :  and  as  he  came  and  drew 
nigh  to  the  house,  he  heard  music  and  dancing.  And  he  called 
to  him  one  of  the  servants,  and  inquired  what  these  things 
might  be. 

And  he  said  unto  him,  "Thy  brother  is  come;  and  thy  father 
hath  killed  the  fatted  calf,  because  he  hath  received  him  safe 
and  sound." 

But  he  was  angry,  and  would  not  go  in:  and  his  father  came 
out,  and  intreated  him. 

But  he  answered  and  said  to  his  father,  "Lo,  these  many 
years  do  I  serve  thee,  and  I  never  transgressed  a  command- 
ment of  thine:  and  yet  thou  never  gavest  me  a  kid,  that  I 
might  make  merry  with  my  friends:  but  when  this  thy  son 
came,  which  hath  devoured  thy  living  with  harlots,  thou  kill- 
edst  for  him  the  fatted  calf." 

And  he  said  unto  him,  "Son,  thou  art  ever  with  me,  and  all 


26    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

that  is  mine  is  thine.  But  it  was  meet  to  make  merry  and  be 
glad :  for  this  thy  brother  was  dead,  and  is  alive  again ;  and  was 
lost,  and  is  found." 

In  the  story  as  thus  arranged  we  find  four  principal 
narrative  units,  constituting  the  occurrence.  Each  of 
these,  in  turn,  consists  of  well  differentiated  sub-groups, 
indicated  by  the  paragraph  division :  for  example,  in  the 
second  main  section  we  have  (a)  the  departure  of  the 
young  man;  (b)  the  loss  of  his  fortune;  (c)  his  repent- 
ance and  resolve;  and  (d)  his  setting  out  for  home.  Each 
of  these  sub-groups  also  is  capable  of  final  analysis  into 
the  narrative  elements  of  the  simplest  form,  the  sentence 
and  clause  units  as  already  shown  in  the  other  instances. 
But  when  we  compare  these  four  main  divisions  or  their 
respective  subdivisions  with  the  various  items  enumer- 
ated on  page  22,  we  find  a  rather  noteworthy  difference: 
chapter  i  of  the  parable,  for  example,  is  incomplete 
without  chapters  u  and  in  and  iv,  and  each  of  these 
in  turn  is  valuable  only  when,  taken  in  conjunction 
with  the  others,  it  forms  part  of  the  parable  as  a  whole. 
So,  again,  with  the  sub-divisions  (a),  (b),  (c),  etc.,  each 
one,  while  in  a  sense  complete,  is  but  a  step  in  the  devel- 
opment of  a  larger  whole,  the  chapter  to  which  it  be- 
longs. It  is  here  that  we  find  the  essential  character  of 
episodic  narration:  an  episode  is  a  complete  entity, 
indeed,  but  in  its  completeness  it  forms  an  essential  part 
of  some  greater  unit,  which  may  or  may  not  be  ulti- 
mate and  final. 

In  extended  narrative  literature,  the  principal  epi- 
sodic unit  is  generally  the  basis  of  the  chapter  divi- 
sion, or  sometimes  of  so-called  "books"  such  as  are 
found  in  Dickens's  Tale  of  Two  Cities,  where  the  story 
is  narrated  under  the  three  heads:  I.  Recalled  to  Life; 


ANALYSIS  OF  THE  NARRATIVE  FORM       27 

II.  The  Golden  Thread;  and  III.  The  Track  of  a  Storm. 
I  contains  six  chapters,  each  a  complete  stage;  II  con- 
tains twenty -four;  and  III  fifteen. 

Hardy's  Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles  is  another  case  in 
point.  This  story  the  author  has  divided  into  seven 
main  stages,  which  he  calls  "phases,"  the  episodic  char- 
acter of  each  appearing  from  its  respective  title :  — 

Phase  the  first The  Maiden. 

Phase  the  second t .  Maiden  no  More. 

Phase  the  third The  Rally. 

Phase  the  fourth The  Consequence. 

Phase  the  fifth The  Woman  Pays. 

Phase  the  sixth The  Convert. 

Phase  the  seventh Fulfilment. 

Each  of  these  "phases"  is  again  subdivided  into  chap- 
ters, in  this  case  without  titles,  but  truly  episodic,  as  is 
clear  if  one  looks  into  their  content.  The  first  five,  for 
example,  in  Phase  the  first,  might  perhaps  be  repre- 
sented by  some  such  topics  as  these :  — 

I.   Seed  by  the  Wayside. 
II.   The  Club  Revel. 

III.  The  Close  of  the  Day. 

IV.  Rolliver's. 

V.   An  Early  Morning  Tragedy. 

This  principle  of  episodic  division  and  subdivision 
characterizes  other  forms  of  narrative  writing  as  well  as 
the  novel  —  history,  biography,  etc.,  as  will  be  apparent 
from  a  glance  at  the  table  of  contents  often  prefixed  to 
the  various  chapters. 

For  mechanical  purposes,  in  analyzing  examples  of 
episodic  composition  into  their  constituent  parts,  the 
student  will  find  it  convenient  to  classify  the  main 


28    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

groups  as  "primary,"  or  episodes  of  the  first  order;  their 
respective  subdivisions  as  "secondary,"  or  episodes  of 
the  second  order;  and  so  on,  until  he  reaches  the  final 
elements.  According  to  this  classification  the  analysis 
of  the  Prodigal  Son  as  arranged  on  pages  24-26  would 
show  four  episodes  of  the  first  order  (indicated  I,  II, 
III,  and  IV);  in  II  four  episodes  of  the  second  order 
(indicated  by  a,  b,  c,  and  d);  and  in  d  of  these  sub- 
groups two  ultimate  details  of  the  third  order. 


CHAPTER  III 

GENERAL  RHETORICAL  CHARACTERISTICS 
OF  NARRATIVE  FORMS 

A.  THE  NARRATIVE  ITEM 

THE  rhetorical  qualities  of  unity,  emphasis,  and  coher- 
ence will  vary  somewhat  in  their  application  to  the  item 
type  and  the  episodic  type  of  narrative  discourse.  This  • 
difference  arises  from  the  fact  that,  sufficient  to  itself 
and  not  a  part  of  a  greater  whole,  the  item  does  not  pos- 
sess what  may  be  called  the  "external  relations"  that 
characterize  the  episode.  Hence  rhetorical  principles  be- 
come simpler  in  their  application,  identical  with  those  of 
what  has  been  called  the  "isolated  paragraph"  in  dis- 
tinction from  the  "related  paragraph"  of  connected  dis- 
course, and  modified  only  by  such  considerations  as  arise 
from  the  very  nature  of  narration  as  shown  by  the  defini- 
tion of  that  form  of  discourse. 

(i)  Unity 

The  general  character  of  the  unity  that  characterizes 
the  isolated  narrative  item  has  already  been  briefly  dis- 
cussed on  pages  4—5.  The  corporate  nature  of  the  event, 
of  the  transaction,  must  be  carefully  maintained;  the 
contributive  bearing  of  the  constituent  parts  on  the  en- 
tire topic  must  be  made  evident.  If  the  reader's  mind  is 
allowed  to  dwell  upon  the  individual  character  of  these 
constituent  details,  the  impression  of  one-ness  is  lost, 
and  either  the  narrative  becomes  increasingly  episodic, 


30   RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

as  the  details  are  more  and  more  individualized,  or  else, 
through  the  introduction  of  irrelevant  matter,  concen- 
tration upon  the  central  theme  is  weakened  with  conse- 
quent loss  of  effect.  For  example,  in  the  following  item, 
by  the  introduction  of  a  wholly  irrelevant  detail  the 
sense  of  concentrated  directness  is  lost.  The  full  effect 
of  the  paragraph  becomes  more  apparent  if  the  detail  in 
question  be  omitted  and  the  narrative  be  allowed  to 
proceed  without  interruption. 

The  wretched  spy,  Veslovsky,  received  annually  100,000 
francs  ($20,000)  from  the  Russian  Government.  He  was  a 
short,  fat  man,  with  long  unkempt  hair.  He  associated  with  us, 
and  we  believed  in  him.  From  the  first  day  he  came  among 
us  this  wonderful  plotter,  this  genial  schemer,  sold  his  breth- 
ren, and  betrayed  women  into  the  hands  of  jailers  and  hang- 
men. He  incited  us  to  acts  of  violence,  in  the  interest  of  the 
Government.1 

In  President  Roosevelt's  tribute  to  Lincoln  in  the 
speech  delivered  at  Hodgenville,  Ky.,  on  the  centenary 
of  Lincoln's  birth,  the  unity  of  the  following  paragraph 

—  which  may  be  isolated  as  if  in  itself  a  complete  item 

—  is  apparent  throughout.  Every,  detail  contributes  to 
the  ultimate  conception  of  Lincoln's  career  as  the  pain- 
ful struggle  of  an  earnest  personality  toward  the  goal  of 
supreme  attainment.    The  central  idea  is  not  inter- 
rupted by  the  interjection  of  anything  that  does  not 
bear  on  the  core  idea;  the  unity  of  the  "transaction" 
is  apparent. 

This  rail-splitter,  this  boy  who  passed  his  ungainly  youth  in 
the  dire  poverty  of  the  poorest  of  the  frontier  folk,  whose  rise 
was  by  weary  and  painful  labor,  lived  to  lead  his  people 
through  the  burning  flames  of  a  struggle  from  which  the  nation 

1  Literary  Digest:  vol.  xxxviii,  p:  287. 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  NARRATIVE  FORMS   31 

emerged,  purified  as  by  fire,  born  anew  to  a  loftier  life.  After 
long  years  of  iron  effort,  and  of  failure  that  came  more  often 
than  victory,  he  at  last  rose  to  the  leadership  of  the  Republic, 
at  the  moment  when  that  leadership  had  become  the  stupen- 
dous world-task  of  the  time.  He  grew  to  know  greatness,  but 
never  ease.  Success  came  to  him,  but  never  happiness,  save 
that  which  springs  from  doing  well  a  painful  and  a  vital  task. 
Power  was  his,  but  not  pleasure.  The  furrows  deepened  on  his 
brow,  but  his  eyes  were  undimmed  by  either  hate  or  fear.  His 
gaunt  shoulders  were  bowed,  but  his  steel  thews  never  fal- 
tered as  he  bore  for  a  burden  the  destinies  of  his  people.  His 
great  and  tender  heart  shrank  from  giving  pain;  and  the 
task  allotted  him  was  to  pour  out  like  water  the  life-blood  of 
the  young  men,  and  to  feel  in  his  every  fibre  the  sorrow  of 
the  women.  Disaster  saddened  but  never  dismayed  him.  As 
the  red  years  of  war  went  by  they  found  him  ever  doing  his 
duty  in  the  present,  ever  facing  the  future  with  fearless 
front,  high  of  heart,  and  dauntless  of  soul.  Unbroken  by 
hatred,  .unshaken  by  scorn,  he  worked  and  suffered  for  the 
people.  Triumph  was  his  at  the  last;  and  barely  had  he  tasted 
it  before  murder  found  him,  and  those  kindly,  patient,  fear- 
less eyes  were  closed  forever. 

(2)  Emphasis 

In  the  narrative  item,  as  in  the  ordinary  isolated 
paragraph,  emphasis,  or  effectiveness,  is  secured  by  so 
massing  the  details  as  to  bring  out  definitely  and  vividly 
the  fundamental  occurrence.  This  is  often  accomplished 
by  the  conventional  rhetorical  device  of  placing  the 
most  significant  matter  in  those  parts  of  the  discourse 
best  suited  to  attract  and  hold  the  reader's  attention  — 
the  beginning  or  the  end,  preferably  the  end.  A  nar- 
rative item  that  closes  with  unimportant  data  is  weak 
indeed.  In  many  instances  there  may  be  no  particular 
detail  of  relatively  great  importance  save  the  climax  of 


32    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

the  narrative,  which  rounds  out  and  completes  the  ac- 
count, and  the  ordering  of  the  details  so  as  to  produce 
this  cumulative  effect  belongs  to  ccji^rence  rather  than 
to  emphasis.  But  often,  especially  when  narration  com- 
bines with  exposition,  there  is  opportunity  of  observing 
the  principle  of  effective  massing.  The  narrative  form,  in 
such  cases,  is  chosen  for  the  elucidation  of  some  truth, 
and  the  effectiveness  of  the  composition  depends  upon 
the  emphatic  presentation  of  this  cardinal  idea.  For 
example,  in  the  following  paragraph  from  Green's  Short 
History  of  the  English  People  —  which,  for  the  purposes 
of  the  immediate  discussion,  we  may  view  as  a  complete 
unit  —  the  thought  of  especial  value  is  the  resolute  char- 
acter of  Henry  II.  as  underlying  a  policy  that  prepared 
England  for  future  unity  and  freedom.  It  will  be  noted 
that  this  central  theme  is  brought  to  the  reader's  atten- 
tion at  the  very  outset  and  is  left  with  him  at  the  close. 

Young  as  he  was,  Henry  mounted  the  throne  with  a  resolute 
purpose  of  government  which  his  reign  carried  steadily  out. 
His  practical,  serviceable  frame  suited  the  hardest  worker  of 
his  time.  There  was  something  in  his  build  and  look,  in  the 
square,  stout  frame,  the  fiery  face,  the  close-cropped  hair,  the 
prominent  eyes,  the  bull  neck,  the  coarse  strong  hands,  the 
bowed  legs,  that  marked  out  the  keen,  stirring,  coarse-fibred 
man  of  business.  "He  never  sits  down,"  said  one  who  observed 
him  closely;  "he  is  always  on  his  legs  from  morning  to  night." 
Orderly  in  business,  careless  in  appearance,  sparing  in  diet, 
never  resting  or  giving  his  servants  rest,  chatty,  inquisitive, 
endowed  with  a  singular  charm  of  address  and  strength  of 
memory,  obstinate  in  love  or  hatred,  a  fair  scholar,  a  great 
hunter,  his  general  air  that  of  a  rough,  passionate,  busy  man, 
Henry's  personal  character  told  directly  on  the  character  of  his 
reign.  His  accession  marks  the  period  of  amalgamation,  when 
neighborhood  and  traffic  and  intermarriage  drew  Englishmen 
and  Normans  rapidly  into  a  single  people.  A  national  feeling 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  NARRATIVE  FORMS   33 

was  thus  springing  up  before  which  the  barriers  of  the  older 
feudalism  were  to  be  swept  away.  Henry  had  even  less  rever- 
ence for  the  feudal  past  than  the  men  of  his  day;  he  was  indeed 
utterly  without  the  imagination  and  reverence  which  enable 
men  to  sympathize  with  any  past  at  all.  He  had  a  practical 
man's  impatience  of  the  obstacles  thrown  in  the  way  of  his 
reforms  by  the  older  constitution  of  the  realm,  nor  could  he 
understand  other  men's  reluctance  to  purchase  undoubted  im- 
provements by  the  sacrifice  of  customs  and  traditions  of  by- 
gone days.  Without  any  theoretical  hostility  to  the  co-ordinate 
powers  of  the  state,  it  seemed  to  him  a  perfectly  reasonable 
and  natural  course  to  trample  either  baronage  or  Church  under 
foot  to  gain  his  end  of  good  government.  He  saw  clearly  that 
the  remedy  for  such  anarchy  as  England  had  endured  under 
Stephen  lay  in  the  establishment  of  a  kingly  government 
unembarrassed  by  any  privileges  of  order  or  class,  adminis- 
tered by  royal  servants,  and  in  whose  public  administration 
the  nobles  acted  simply  as  delegates  of  the  sovereign.  His  work 
was  to  lie  in  the  organization  of  judicial  and  administrative 
reforms  which  realized  this  idea.  But  of  the  great  currents  of 
thought  and  feeling  which  were  tending  in  the  same  direction  he 
knew  nothing.  What  he  did  for  the  moral  and  social  impulses 
which  were  telling  on  men  about  him  was  simply  to  let  them 
alone.  Religion  grew  more  and  more  identified  with  patriot- 
ism under  the  eyes  of  a  King  who  whispered,  and  scribbled, 
and  looked  at  picture-books  during  mass,  who  never  confessed, 
and  cursed  God  in  wild  frenzies  of  blasphemy.  Great  peoples 
formed  themselves  on  both  sides  of  the  sea  round  a  sovereign 
who  bent  the  whole  force  of  his  mind  to  hold  together  an 
Empire  which  the  growth  of  nationality  must  inevitably 
destroy.  There  is  throughout  a  tragic  grandeur  in  the  irony 
of  Henry's  position,  that  of  a  Sforza  of  the  fifteenth  century  set 
in  the  midst  of  the  twelfth,  building  up  by  patience  and  policy 
and  craft  a  dominion  alien  to  the  deepest  sympathies  of  his 
age,  and  fated  to  be  swept  away  in  the  end  by  popular  forces 
to  whose  existence  his  very  cleverness  and  activity  blinded 
him.  But  indirectly  and  unconsciously,  his  policy  did  more 


34    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

than  that  of  all  his  predecessors  to  prepare  England  for  the 
unity  and  freedom  which  the  fall  of  his  house  was  to  reveal.1 

The  passage  does  not  indeed  carry  out  the  rather 
theoretical  principle  laid  down  by  Professor  Barrett 
Wendell  in  his  English  Composition  that  the  effective 
massing  of  a  paragraph  may  be  tested  by  our  ability  to 
summarize  its  substance  in  a  simple  sentence  of  which 
the  subject  is  the  opening  sentence  of  the  paragraph  and 
the  predicate  the  last;  but  it  approximates  even  this 
extreme  test.  We  might  perhaps  say  that  the  substan- 
tial thought  of  the  passage  from  Green  runs  somewhat 
after  this  order:  The  resolute  purpose  displayed  by  the 
young  king  at  his  accession,  and  steadily  carried  out 
through  his  reign,  was  largely  instrumental  in  preparing 
England  for  her  future  unity  and  freedom.  The  brief 
narrative  resume  contained  in  the  body  of  the  paragraph 
is  entirely  subordinate  to  this  main  consideration,  which 
is  driven  home  by  its  emphatic  position  at  the  beginning 
and  at  the  end  of  the  passage. 

Macaulay's  famous  account  of  the  Black  Hole  hor- 
ror, as  contained  in  the  Essay  on  Lord  Clive,  is  an  ex- 
ample of  the  more  typical  brief  narrative.  It  may  be 
considered  as  an  enlarged  narrative  item  of  three 
paragraphs  in  length. 

Then  was  committed  that  great  crime,  memorable  for  its 
singular  atrocity,  memorable  for  the  tremendous  retribution 
by  which  it  was  followed.  The  English  captives  were  left  at 
the  mercy  of  the  guards,  and  the  guards  determined  to  secure 
them  for  the  night  in  the  prison  of  the  garrison,  a  chamber 
known  by  the  fearful  name  of  the  Black  Hole.  Even  for  a  sin- 
gle European  malefactor  that  dungeon  would,  in  such  a  climate, 

1  From  Green's  Short  History  of  the  English  People.  Published  by 
Harper  £  Brothers. 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  NARRATIVE  FORMS    35 

have  been  too  close  and  narrow.  The  space  was  only  twenty 
feet  square.  The  air-holes  were  small  and  obstructed.  It  was 
the  summer  solstice,  the  season  when  the  fierce  heat  of  Bengal 
can  scarcely  be  rendered  tolerable  to  natives  of  England  by 
lofty  halls  and  by  the  constant  waving  of  fans.  The  number  of 
the  prisoners  was  one  hundred  and  forty-six.  When  they  were 
ordered  to  enter  the  cell,  they  imagined  that  the  soldiers  were 
joking;  and,  being  in  high  spirits  on  account  of  the  promise  of 
the  Nabob  to  spare  their  lives,  they  laughed  and  jested  at  the 
absurdity  of  the  notion.  They  soon  discovered  their  mistake. 
They  expostulated;  they  entreated;  but  in  vain.  The  guards 
threatened  to  cut  down  all  who  hesitated.  The  captives  were 
driven  into  the  cell  at  the  point  of  the  sword,  and  the  door  was 
instantly  shut  and  locked  upon  them. 

Nothing  in  history  or  fiction,  not  even  the  story  which 
Ugolino  told  in  the  sea  of  everlasting  ice,  after  he  had  wiped 
his  bloody  lip's  on  the  scalp  of  his  murderer,  approaches  the 
horrors  which  were  recounted  by  the  few  survivors  of  that 
night.  They  cried  for  mercy.  They  strove  to  burst  the  door. 
Hoi  well,  who,  even  in  that  extremity,  retained  some  presence 
of  mind,  offered  large  bribes  to  the  jailers.  But  the  answer  was 
that  nothing  could  be  done  without  the  Nabob's  orders,  that 
the  Nabob  was  asleep,  and  that  he  would  be  angry  if  anybody 
woke  him.  Then  the  prisoners  went  mad  with  despair.  They 
trampled  each  other  down,  fought  for  the  places  at  the  win- 
dows, fought  for  the  pittance  of  water  with  which  the  cruel 
mercy  of  the  murderers  mocked  their  agonies,  raved,  prayed, 
blasphemed,  implored  the  guards  to  fire  among  them.  The 
jailers  in  the  meantime  held  lights  to  the  bars,  and  shouted 
with  laughter  at  the  frantic  struggles  of  their  victims.  At  length 
the  tumult  died  away  in  low  gaspings  and  meanings.  The  day 
broke.  The  Nabob  had  slept  off  his  debauch,  and  permitted 
the  door  to  be  opened.  But  it  was  some  time  before  the  soldiers 
could  make  a  lane  for  the  survivors,  by  piling  up  on  each  side 
the  heaps  of  corpses  on  which  the  burning  climate  had  already 
begun  to  do  its  loathsome  work.  When  at  length  a  passage  was 
made,  twenty-three  ghastly  figures,  such  as  their  own  mothers 


36    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

would  not  have  known,  staggered  one  by  one  out  of  the  charnel- 
house.  A  pit  was  instantly  dug.  The  dead  bodies,  a  hundred 
and  twenty-three  in  number,  were  flung  into  it  promiscuously, 
and  covered  up. 

But  these  things,  which,  after  the  lapse  of  more  than  eighty 
years,  cannot  be  told  or  read  without  horror,  awakened  neither 
remorse  nor  pity  in  the  bosom  of  the  savage  Nabob.  He 
inflicted  no  punishment  on  the  murderers.  He  showed  no 
tenderness  to  the  survivors.  Some  of  them,  indeed,  from  whom 
nothing  was  to  be  got  were  suffered  to  depart;  but  those  from 
whom  it  was  thought  that  anything  could  be  extorted  were 
treated  with  execrable  cruelty.  Hoi  well,  unable  to  walk,  was 
carried  before  the  tyrant,  who  reproached  him,  threatened 
him,  and  sent  him  up  to  the  country  in  irons,  together  with 
some  other  gentlemen  who  were  suspected  of  knowing  more 
than  they  chose  to  tell  about  the  treasures  of  the  Company. 
These  persons,  still  bowed  down  by  the  sufferings  of  that 
great  agony,  were  lodged  in  miserable  sheds  and  fed  only  with 
grain  and  water,  till  at  length  the  intercessions  of  the  female 
relations  of  the  Nabob  procured  their  release.  One  English- 
woman had  survived  that  night.  She  was  placed  in  the  harem 
of  the  Prince  at  Moorshedabad. 

The  student  will  notice  the  dramatic  effect  of  the  sen- 
tences that  close  these  respective  paragraphs:  "The 
captives  were  driven  into  the  cell  at  the  point  of  the 
sword,  and  the  door  was  instantly  shut  and  locked  upon 
them,"  "The  dead  bodies,  a  hundred  and  twenty-three 
in  number j  were  flung  into  it  promiscuously,  and  cov- 
ered up,"  and  "She  was  placed  in  the  harem  of  the  Prince 
at  Moorshedabad."  Each  division  of  the  narrative  con-, 
eludes  forcefully,  leaving  a  distinct  impression  of  horror. 
The  paragraphs  are  well  massed. 

Another  consideration  that  belongs  to  this  same  rhe- 
torical element  of  emphasis  is  the  proportionate  amount 
of  space  that  each  detail  should  receive.  In  the  item  there 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  NARRATIVE  FORMS   37 

is  not  so  great  likelihood  of  the  writer's  over-elaborating 
the  introduction  or  of  dwelling  unduly  upon  insignificant 
details;  that  is  a  graver  danger  in  episodic  narrative. 
But  even  in  the  brief  form  of  the  item  some  one  constitu- 
ent portion  may  be  unduly  emphasized  with  the  result 
that  attention  is  drawn  away  from  the  main  theme  with 
consequent  loss  of  emphasis.  This  consideration  will  be 
taken  up  at  greater  length  when  we  come  to  discuss 
the  elaboration  of  episodes  in  more  extended  narrative 
discourse. 

(3)  Coherence 

While  unity  and  emphasis  are  important  elements  in 
the  construction  of  the  narrative  item,  while  without 
them  it  lacks  artistic  finish,  yet  coherence  is,  all  things 
considered,  the  very  warp  of  the  narrative  pattern.  As 
stated  in  the  definition,  narration  is  not  merely  the  pre- 
sentation of  an  occurrence;  it  is  the  setting  forth  of  the 
details  of  the  occurrence  in  their  chronological  order. 
The  idea  of  a  series,  of  a  succession,  is  fundamental. 
With  this  chronological  ordering  of  the  details  coherence 
has  mainly  to  do.  In  description  the  totality  of  effect, 
the  unity  of  impression,  is  the  main  consideration;  and, 
although  in  securing  and  assuring  the  impression  the 
artist  may  not  neglect  the  details  of  arrangement  that 
combine  to  produce  the  ultimate  harmony  of  parts,  yet 
this  harmony  is  in  the  end  his  main  consideration.  The 
arrangement  of  the  details  is  but  a  means  to  that  end. 
With  the  historian,  however,  the  sequence  of  the  details 
is  relatively  of  greater  importance.  As  the  narrative 
form  increases  in  complexity,  this  question  of  coher- 
ence increases  in  importance,  as  will  appear  if  one  thinks 
of  the  part  that  the  details  must  play,  for  example,  in  a 
novel  of  complicated  plot,  or  in  a  detective  story.  But 


38    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

even  in  the  item  and  in  the  isolated  narrative  paragraph, 
the  sequence  of  the  details  plays  a  far  more  important 
part  than  in  a  paragraph  of  any  other  character. 

As  already  intimated,  the  question  of  narrative  co- 
herence brings  up  the  consideration  of  plot;  but  in  the 
simple  item  this  may  well  seem  too  pretentious  a  title. 
Within  the  limits  of  the  item  there  is  little  opportunity 
for  the  elaboration  and  intricacy  that  belong  to  plot  as 
that  term  is  generally  understood.  And  yet,  even  in 
the  simple  narrative,  the  ordering  of  details  presents 
material  for  study.  What  arrangement  will  best  set 
the  event  before  the  reader's  mind,  —  the  actual  order  of 
the  details  as  they  happened,  or  the  issue  followed  by 
the  successive  steps  that  led  up  to  it?  Shall  we  insert  the 
connectives,  temporal  and  logical,  and  thus  lead  the 
reader  from  point  to  point,  allowing  his  imagination  or 
his  logical  sense  no  rein  whatever?  Or,  by  the  omission 
of  these  auxiliary  guides,  shall  we  give  him  the  liberty 
to  supply  the  links  and  thus  allow  him,  to  some  small 
extent,  to  construct  his  own  pattern  as  he  reads? 
These  and  other  considerations  of  like  sort  confront  the 
student  of  narrative  structure  as  he  examines  the  ele- 
ment of  coherence.  The  various  aspects  of  the  subject 
may  be  arranged  under  the  following  heads:  (a)  the 
structure  and  ordering  of  the  sentences;  and  (6)  the 
ordering  of  the  component  narrative  details. 

(a)  The  Structure  and  Ordering  of  the  Sentences 

In  considering  the  structure  and  ordering  of  the  sen- 
tences in  a  piece  of  composition,  a  matter  of  first  impor- 
tance is  the  use  of  connectives.  De  Quincey,  speaking 
in  general  of  style,1  says  that  "the  philosophy  of  transi- 

1  Autobiography  and  Literary  Reminiscences. 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  NARRATIVE  FORMS   39 

tion  and  connection,  or  the  art  by  which  one  step  in  an 
evolution  of  thought  is  made  to  arise  out  of  another,  is 
one  of  the  two  capital  secrets  in  the  art  of  prose  compo- 
sition: all  fluent  and  effective  composition  depends  on 
the  connectives."  This  is  perhaps  truer  of  expository 
or  argumentative  writing  than  of  narrative,  because  in 
them  the  logical  relations  are  more  varied  in  character 
and  more  subtile.  Unless  the  reader  be  restricted  by 
the  causal,  conditional,  temporal,  or  concessive  connect- 
ives, there  is  greater  opportunity  for  him  to  go  astray 
into  some  by-path  not  foreseen  by  the  writer.  In  nar- 
rative writing,  on  the  other  hand,  the  relation  be- 
tween the  constituent  ideas  is  largely  temporal,  and 
the  suppression  or  the  expression  of  the  connectives 
becomes  a  matter  of  effectiveness,  rather  than  of  mere 
clearness. 

A^i/ndeton  is  the  name  given  to  that  figure  of  style  in 
which  the  connectives  between  the  various  parts  of  sen- 
tences or  between  sentences  themselves  are  omitted. 
Asyndeton  may  be  considered  as  a  rhetorical  device  to 
secure  emphasis,  and,  being  a  device,  is  a  deviation  from 
the  normal  method  of  writing,  in  which  we  express  the 
connectives.  We  may,  therefore,  logically  consider  first 
those  forms  of  the  narrative  paragraph  in  which  the 
transitions  appear. 

An  example  of  the  simplest  kind  of  narrative  se- 
quence in  which  we  find  all  the  connectives  is  offered  in 
the  story  of  Joseph's  coat  (Genesis  xxxvii,  29-36), 
which  we  may  extract  from  its  setting  and  consider  as  a 
simple  narrative  item. 

And  Reuben  returned  unto  the  pit;  and,  behold,  Joseph  was 
not  in  the  pit;  and  he  rent  his  clothes.  And  he  returned  unto 
his  brethren,  and  said,  The  child  is  not;  and  I,  whither  shall  I 
go?  And  they  took  Joseph's  coat,  and  killed  a  kid  of  the  goats, 


40    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

and  dipped  the  coat  in  the  blood;  and  they  sent  the  coat  of 
many  colours,  and  they  brought  it  to  their  father;  and  said, 
This  have  we  found :  know  now  whether  it  be  thy  son's  coat  or 
no.  And  he  knew  it,  and  said,  It  is  my  son's  coat;  an  evil  beast 
hath  devoured  him;  Joseph  is  without  doubt  rent  in  pieces. 
And  Jacob  rent  his  clothes,  and  put  sackcloth  upon  his  loins, 
and  mourned  for  his  son  many  days.  And  all  his  sons  and  all 
his  daughters  rose  up  to  comfort  him;  but  he  refused  to  be 
comforted;  and  he  said,  For  I  will  go  down  into  the  grave  unto 
my  son  mourning.  Thus  his  father  wept  for  him.  And  the 
Midianites  sold  him  into  Egypt  unto  Potiphar,  an  officer  of 
Pharaoh's,  and  captain  of  the  guard. 

In  this  passage  all  the  main  narrative  details  are 
joined  by  "and,"  except  in  one  case  where  the  adver- 
sative idea  is  represented  by  "but,"  and  in  another 
where  "thus,"  expressing  a  modal  relation  with  some- 
thing of  summarizing  effect,  joins  the  sentence  to  what 
precedes..  Simplicity  is  the  noteworthy  characteristic 
of  the  style:  the  narrative  details  merely  accumulate 
without  suggestion  of  complication.  According  to 
modern  usage,  where  the  tendency  of  written  prose  is 
toward  the  abruptness  of  conversational  style,  this  fully 
conjoined  method  would  be  open  to  the  charge  of  mo- 
notony and  immaturity.  The  type  is  familiar  to  all 
critics  of  undergraduate  composition. 

Compare  with  the  simplicity  of  the  scriptural  narra- 
tive the  following  account  chosen  from  Scott's  Highland 
Widow:  — 

Whilst  the  women  thus  discoursed  together,  as  they  watched 
the  corpse  of  Allan  Breack  Cameron,  the  unhappy  cause  of  his 
death  pursued  her  lonely  way  across  the  mountain.  While  she 
remained  within  sight  of  the  bothy,  she  put  a  strong  constraint 
on  herself,  that  by  no  alteration  of  pace  or  gesture,  she  might 
afford  to  her  enemies  the  triumph  of  calculating  the  excess  of 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  NARRATIVE  FORMS    41 

her  mental  agitation,  nay,  despair.  She  stalked,  therefore, 
with  a  slow  rather  than  a  swift  step,  and,  holding  herself  up- 
right, seemed  at  once  to  endure  with  firmness  that  woe  which 
was  passed,  and  bid  defiance  to  that  which  was  about  to  come. 
But  when  she  was  beyond  the  sight  of  those  who  remained  in 
the  hut,  she  could  no  longer  suppress  the  extremity  of  her  agi- 
tation. Drawing  her  mantle  wildly  round  her,  she  stopped  at 
the  first  knoll,  and  climbing  to  its  summit,  extended  her  arms 
up  to  the  bright  moon,  as  if  accusing  heaven  and  earth  for  her 
misfortunes,  and  uttered  scream  on  scream,  like  those  of  an 
eagle  whose  nest  has  been  plundered  of  her  brood.  Awhile  she 
vented  her  grief  in  these  inarticulate  cries,  then  rushed  on  her 
way  with  a  hasty  and  unequal  step,  in  the  vain  hope  of  over- 
taking the  party  which  was  conveying  her  son  a  prisoner  to 
Dumbarton.  But  her  strength,  superhuman  as  it  seemed,  failed 
her  in  the  trial,  nor  was  it  possible  for  her,  with  her  utmost 
efforts,  to  accomplish  her  purpose. 

Here  we  have  a  distinctly  different  effect.  In  this 
paragraph  the  connectives  are  as  generously  expressed 
as  in  the  passage  regarding  Joseph's  coat,  but  with  far 
greater  variety.  We  have  in  the  passage  from  Scott  not 
only  the  idea  of  chronological  sequence,  but  also  of 
simultaneous,  of  consequent,  and  of  contrasting  action 
as  well.  Compared  with  the  extract  from  the  Old  Testa- 
ment this  presents  greater  complexity  of  structure;  in 
fact,  it  reveals  an  approximation  towards  plot. 

In  contrast  to  the  leisurely  and  fully  detailed  method 
of  the  preceding  articulated  paragraphs  we  may  take 
the  following  incident  from  chapter  xviii  of  Macaulay's 
History  of  England:  — 

Glenlyon  and  his  men  committed  the  error  of  despatching 
their  hosts  with  firearms  instead  of  using  the  cold  steel.  The 
peal  and  flash  of  gun  after  gun  gave  notice,  from  three  different 
parts  of  the  valley  at  once,  that  murder  was  doing.  From  fifty 


42    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

cottages  the  half-naked  peasantry  fled  under  cover  of  the  night 
to  the  recesses  of  their  pathless  glen.  Even  the  sons  of  Maclan, 
who  had  been  especially  marked  out  for  destruction,  contrived 
to  escape.  They  were  roused  from  sleep  by  faithful  servants. 
John,  who,  by  the  death  of  his  father,  had  become  the  patri- 
arch of  the  tribe,  quitted  his  dwelling  just  as  twenty  soldiers 
with  fixed  bayonets  marched  up  to  it.  It  was  broad  day  long 
before  Hamilton  arrived.  He  found  the  work  not  even  half  per- 
formed. About  thirty  corpses  lay  wallowing  in  blood  on  the 
dunghills  before  the  doors.  One  or  two  women  were  seen  among 
the  number,  and  a  yet  more  fearful  and  piteous  sight,  a  little 
hand,  which  had  been  lopped  in  the  tumult  of  the  butchery 
from  some  infant.  One  aged  Macdonald  was  found  alive.  He 
was  probably  too  infirm  to  fly,  and,  as  he  was  above  seventy, 
was  not  included  in  the  orders  under  which  Glenlyon  had 
acted.  Hamilton  murdered  the  old  man  in  cold  blood.  The 
deserted  hamlets  were  then  set  on  fire;  and  the  troops  de- 
parted, driving  away  with  them  many  sheep  and  goats,  nine 
hundred  kine,  and  two  hundred  of  the  small  shaggy  ponies  of 
the  Highlands. 

Here  every  sentence-articulation  is  suppressed.  The 
reader  no  longer  moves  on  step  by  step;  he  leaps  from 
detail  to  detail.  Between  each  sentence  and  its  succes- 
sor there  is  a  distinct  gap,  but  no  conjunctive  or  adverb- 
ial bridge  spans  the  chasm.  The  result  is  far  greater 
animation  and  force.  If  continued  too  far,  this  device, 
like  that  of  a  fully  articulated  style,  loses  through  sheer 
monotony,  but  the  monotony  now  results  in  weariness 
from  sustained  mental  exertion,  from  too  long  a  run.  In 
the  other  case  the  monotony  did  not  weary  so  much  as  it 
cloyed.  The  device  of  asyndeton  in  the  item,  as  in  longer 
narrative,  is  adapted  to  a  theme  of  vigor,  rapidity,  dash. 
It  secures  force  and  nervous  energy,  but  is  easily  carried 
too  far. 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  NARRATIVE  FORMS    43 

The  matter  of  coherence,  however,  is  not  limited  to 
the  considerations  oi.  initial  and  terminal  connectives: 
coherence  is  affected  also  by  internal  articulation.  The 
temporal  relation  that  enters  so  essentially  into  the  nar- 
rative item  can  be  expressed  in  a  variety  of  ways,  each 
possessing  its  own  particular  shade  of  significance,  and 
the  general  character  of  the  whole  is  attributable  in  no 
small  degree  to  the  type  of  structure  selected.  A  very 
simple  illustration  will  show  what  is  meant  by  the  value 
of  internal  connectives.  Consider  the  single  sentence: 

So  artfully  did  he  prepare  the  road  for  his  favorable  recep- 
tion at  the  court  of  this  prince  that  he  was  at  once  and  uni- 
versally welcomed  as  a  benefactor.1 

As  it  stands,  this  sentence  conveys  but  a  single  principal 
idea,  composed  of  two  essential  parts,  standing  to  each 
other  in  the  relation  of  cause  and  effect.  Disturb  the 
relation  inherent  in  "so"  and  "that,"  and  the  highly 
coherent  aspect  of  this  complex  ideals  lost.  The  sentence 
at  once  falls  apart  into  two  independent  units,  the  bond 
between  them  being  no  longer  clearly  expressed  but  left 
to  the  interpretation  of  the  reader;  for  example, 

He  artfully  prepared  the  road  for  his  favorable  reception  at 
the  court  of  this  prince;  and  he  was  at  once  and  universally 
welcomed  as  a  benefactor. 

The  relation  that  is  indicated  at  the  semicolon  might  be, 
-  probably  would  be,  —  interpreted  as  that  of  cause 
and  effect,  and  yet  it  might  well  be  the  mere  sequence  of 
chronological  succession,  —  a  very  different  idea.  If, 
now,  the  sentence  were  to  read :  — 

Although  he  artfully  prepared  the  road  for  his  favorable 
reception  at  the  court  of  this  prince,  yet  he  was  at  once  and 
universally  welcomed  as  a  benefactor, 

1  De  Quincey:  Revolt  of  the  Tartars. 


'44    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

it  at  once  becomes  evident  that  the  logical  values  have 
been  radically  changed,  and  the  reader  must  adjust  his 
mind  to  a  wholly  different  context.  The  successive  vari- 
ations show  that  within  the  sentence  coherence-words 
are  of  great  importance  in  exactly  expressing  the  idea 
existent  in  the  mind  of  the  writer. 

Not  to  go  too  deeply  into  the  mechanics  of  the 
sentence,  —  the  clause,  the  phrase,  and  the  various 
classes  of  modifiers,  —  it  may  be  said  that  in  general 
the  effects  of  connective  expression  and  suppression 
are  the  same  within  as  between  sentences.  A  narrative 
item  constructed  of  sentences  in  which  there  is  but  a 
succession  of  coordinated  clauses,  similar  in  structure 
and  cumulative  in  character,  will  be  marked  by  sim- 
plicity, but  often  at  the  risk  of  monotony.  Greater  com- 
plexity, more  careful  regard  to  coherence  of  details,  as 
shown  by  the  subordination  of  one  idea  to  another,  not 
only  presents  the  narrative  theme  with  greater  exact- 
ness, but,  by  throwing  the  stress  where  it  logically  be- 
longs, approximates  in  a  very  rudimentary  way  the  com- 
plexity of  well  grouped  plot  structure.  In  other  words, 
due  attention  to  coherence  within  the  sentence  con- 
tributes also  to  clearness  and  emphasis.  For  example,  to 
cite  a  single  sentence  in  illustration  of  a  principle  that  in 
its  extension  characterizes  the  entire  item,  take  the 
following :  — 

That  dread  voice  of  his  that  shook  the  hills  when  he  was 
angry,  fell  in  ordinary  talk  very  pleasantly  upon  the  ear,  with 
a  kind  of  honied,  friendly  whine,  not  far  off  singing,  that  was 
eminently  Scottish.1 

Now  if  one  were  to  recast  this  sentence  into  the  form 
that  frequently  is  found  in  the  work  of  the  thoughtless  or 

1  Stevenson's  Memories  and  Portraits.  By  permission  of  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons. 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  NARRATIVE  FORMS    45 

inexperienced  writer,  suppressing  all  the  shades  of  inter- 
dependence, and  giving  to  each  constituent  predication 
equal  stress,  the  result  would  be  something  after  this  sort : 

Sometimes  he  was  angry  and  that  dread  voice  of  his  shook 
the  hills,  but  in  ordinary  talk  it  fell  very  pleasantly  upon  the 
ear,  and  its  kind  of  honied,  friendly  whine  was  not  far  off  sing- 
ing and  was  eminently  Scottish. 

It  is  apparent  at  a  glance  that  the  due  proportion  of 
parts  has  been  grossly  disturbed.  The  pleasant  tone  of 
the  voice  in  ordinary  conversation,  which  is  the  domi- 
nant theme  of  the  original  sentence,  has  now  lost  its 
relative  value  by  its  correlation  with  the  idea  of  the  first 
clause  and  of  the  last  two,  all  of  which  are  logically  sub- 
ordinate and  contributory. 

These  and  other  matters  of  internal  sentence  struc- 
ture, —  the  periodic,  the  loose,  and  the  balanced  sen- 
tence; the  suppression  of  clauses  into  phrases:  simple, 
complex,  and  compound  sentences;  the  matter  of  phrasal 
modifications,  —  have  been  thrashed  out  in  every  text 
book  on  rhetoric  and  composition.  Nor  are  these  some- 
what technical  considerations  trivial  and  merely  aca- 
demic. The  student  of  the  mechanics  of  narrative  writ- 
ing may  well  study  them,  for  the  observation  of  these 
very  details,  conscious  or  unconscious,  has  contributed 
largely  to  the  effectiveness  that  characterizes  the  ex- 
pression of  the  great  masters.  Narrative  literature 
abounds  with  examples  that  illustrate  the  difference 
between  styles  characterized  by  simplicity  or  complex- 
ity, clearness  or  vagueness,  rapidity  or  deliberation, 
dignity  or  informality.  And  often  it  is  evident  that  the 
ultimate  effect  is  due  largely  to  the  writer's  observation 
of  coherence  between  the  sentences  or  between  the  ele- 
ments within  the  sentences. 


46    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

(b)  The  Ordering  of  the  Narrative  Details 

Coherence  in  the  narrative  item,  however,  is  not  lim- 
ited to  the  coordination  and  subordination  of  sentences 
or  of  sentence  elements.  The  ordering  of  the  narrative 
details  that  constitute  the  occurrence  is  of  no  less  im- 
portance. This  consideration  is  less  purely  technical 
and  grammatical  than  the  preceding;  it  appeals  more  to" 
the  artistic  judgment  of  the  writer,  to  his  sense  of  effect- 
iveness. 

The  writer  of  the  simplest  narrative  form  may  order 
his  details  in  any  one  of  several  ways.  Three,  however, 
are  common,  and  each  of  the  three  has  its  own  particular 
value. 

One  method  of  ordering  the  narrative  elements  is  illus- 
trated in  the  following  item,  the  brief  review  of  a  novel :  < 

Child  of  Destiny  (William  Briggs,  Toronto)  by  William  J. 
Fischer,  is  a  love  story  dealing  with  two  generations.  A  young 
man  is  scorned  by  the  woman  he  loves,  and,  giving  himself  up 
to  jealousy  and  hatred,  follows  her  after  her  marriage  to  an- 
other man  and  kidnaps  her  little  daughter.  He  carries  the 
child  back  to  his  own  home  and  brings  her  up  in  luxury.  She 
grows  into  a  lovely  young  woman  and  is  about  to  marry,  when 
a  letter  of  confession  left  by  her  abductor  at  the  time  of  his 
death  reveals  that  she  and  her  intended  husband  are  brother 
and  sister.  Later  it  is  discovered  that  they  are  not  blood  rela- 
tives, since  he  had  been  adopted  by  her  parents.1 

In  this  case  we  have  what  we  may  perhaps  call  the  nor- 
mal narrative  order.  The  details  are  set  down  in  simple 
chronological  succession.  Coherence  is  secured  by  the 
natural  bond  that  unites  events  proceeding  one  from  an- 
other. The  writer  assumes  sufficient  interest  on  the  part 

1  New  York  Times. 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  NARRATIVE  FORMS   47 

of  the  reader  to  hold  the  attention  from  one  stage  to  an- 
other until  the  end,  without  the  adventitious  assistance 
of  complicated  structure,  such  as  characterizes  a  story 
like  James  Lane  Allen's  Flute  and  Violin  or  a  novel  like 
Henry  Esmond,  where  the  natural  order  is  frequently  in- 
terrupted by  forward  casts  and  subsequent  resumptions 
of  the  narrative  thread. 

Another  method  of  ordering  the  narrative  details  —  a 
modification  of  that  already  explained  —  appears  in  the 
newspaper  item  following :  — 

Russell  H.  Davidson  and  his  wife  and  infant  child  had  a  nar- 
row escape  from  a  most  serious  accident  at  Harrison  Saturday 
afternoon,  their  horse  being  attacked  with  blind  staggers  and 
falling  over  a  20-foot  embankment  into  the  river  near  the 
junction  of  Main  and  Park  streets.  Mr.  Davidson  was  driv- 
ing his  bay  mare  through  the  narrow  street  from  Water  to  Park 
street,  and  at  the  narrowest  part  the  horse  was  suddenly  at- 
tacked with  a  rush  of  blood  to  the  head,  reared,  and  then  fell 
against  the  railing  protecting  the  roadway  from  the  embank- 
ment by  the  side  of  the  river.  The  animal,  instantly  uncontrol- 
lable, fell  against  the  rail,  broke  it,  and  then  plunged  twenty 
feet  down  into  the  stream,  which  at  this  point  was  not  very 
deep.  A  part  of  the  harness  broke,  and  the  runner  struck  against 
a  stone  pier  holding  up  the  rail,  which  prevented  the  sleigh 
from  plunging  with  the  occupants  after  the  horse. 

Harry  Templeton,  driver  for  the  American  Express  Com- 
pany, with  the  team  that  he  was  driving,  was  just  about  to 
pass  Mr.  Davidson's  sleigh.  He  saw  the  accident,  and,  in- 
stantly realizing  the  danger,  sprang  from  his  own  sleigh,  and 
threw  his  weight  on  the  cutter,  which  was  toppling  on  the  edge 
of  the  embankment.  The  horse  was  afterward  rescued  by  John 
Dennis,  who  was  lowered  down  to  the  river  by  a  rope,  and  led 
the  animal,  apparently  uninjured,  up  the  bed  of  the  river  to  a 
point  where  the  bank  sloped  sufficiently  to  afford  a  firm  foot- 
ing. No  bones  were  broken,  and  the  horse,  to  all  outward  ap- 
pearances, was  uninjured. 


48    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

Here  the  writer  has  begun  with  a  bird's-eye  view  of 
the  complete  transaction,  and  has  followed  it  up  by  pre- 
senting the  constituent  details  in  their  due  order.  This 
method  of  securing  coherence  by  placing  at  the  very 
beginning  an  epitome  of  the  entire  action  serves  the 
same  purpose  as  do  the  headlines  in  a  telegraphic  col- 
umn. It  gives  the  hasty  reader  an  opportunity  of  test- 
ing the  contents  of  the  paragraph  in  question,  that  he 
may  continue  or  stray  elsewhere  as  his  taste  dictates. 
Of  course,  it  is  apparent  that  in  this  method  of  ordering 
the  details  there  must  be  a  momentary  break  in  the  co- 
herence of  the  narrative  at  the  point  where  the  writer 
completes  the  epitome  and  passes  on  to  the  individual 
elements  of  the  account  in  their  chronological  order.  But, 
the  entire  transaction  in  miniature  before  him,  the  chasm 
is  not  a  wide  one,  and  the  effect  of  coherence  is  not  lost. 
This  device  is  better  adapted  to  the  item  than  to  longer 
narrative  forms,  because  in  these  the  question  of  sus- 
pense and  the  various  devices  for  sustaining  the  reader's 
interest  become  increasingly  important,  and  to  begin 
by  presenting  the  issue  would  be  fatal.  If  one  will  try 
to  imagine  Aldrich's  Marjorie  Daw  or  Maupassant's 
Necklace  so  rearranged  that  the  substance  of  the  closing 
paragraph  is  summed  up  at  the  outset,  he  will  at  once 
appreciate  the  futility  of  this  method  in  a  long  narra- 
tive where  the  interest  is  to  be  sustained. 

Finally,  the  writer  of  simple  narrative  may  vary  the 
natural  method,  not  by  epitomizing  at  the  outset,  but  by 
plunging  in  medias  res,  as  Virgil  does  in  the  story  of  ^Eneas 
or  Thackeray  in  the  adventures  of  Henry  Esmond, 
picking  up  later  the  omitted  antecedent  strands,  and 
working  down  to  the  starting  point,  there  to  resume  the 
broken  narrative.  A  crude  example  of  the  method  may 
be  found  in  the  following  extract  from  a  daily  paper: 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  NARRATIVE  FORMS   49 

"Now,  would  n't  that  destroy  your  confidence  in  human 
nature?"  exclaimed  William  Bourne,  the  chairman  of  the 
Board  of  Selectmen,  when  a  jury  rendered  a  verdict  against 
him  in  the  Municipal  Court  at  Wakefield.  "To  go  to  the 
trouble  and  expense  of  defending  a  perfectly  clear  case  and 
then  to  get  this  sort  of  treatment!" 

Mr.  Bourne,  who  owns  a  fine  estate  at  Clarksburg,  was  sued 
by  Duncan  Williams,  a  Clarksburg  grain-dealer,  for  $195,  the 
value  of  corn,  hay,  and  oats  delivered  at  Mr.  Bourne's  resi- 
dence, and  there  fed  to  the  horses,  chickens,  and  pigeons.  Mr. 
Bourne  declined  to  pay  the  bill,  contending  that  he  had  not 
ordered  the  goods. 

"I'll  sue  you,"  warned  Williams. 

"Go  on  and  sue,"  advised  Mr.  Bourne.  "I  think  my  pro- 
perty is  worth  the  face  of  the  bill  if  you  get  a  judgment." 

Williams  thought  so  too,  and  decided  to  take  the  risk.  The 
trial,  several  times  deferred,  was  held  yesterday  before  Justice 
Hart,  and  a  jury  of  six  men.  Williams  won  his  case. 

This  device,  like  the  preceding,  has  the  advantage 
over  the  prosaic  chronological  method  in  that  it  catches 
the  attention  at  the  outset.  The  problem  is  then  to 
carry  the  reader  over  the  gap  that  necessarily  occurs  at 
the  point  of  reversion  to  the  antecedent  particulars.  If 
sufficient  momentum  can  be  gained,  the  reader  will  fol- 
low the  backward  cast  to  what  may  be  a  prosaic  set  of 
initiative  details,  and  will  then  trace  the  successive 
events  to  the  final  issue.  The  method  is  evidently 
adapted  to  those  narratives  in  which  the  introductory 
details  are  not  of  sufficient  dramatic  power  or  interest  to 
catch  the  attention.  In  longer  composition  than  the  item 
.  this  same  device  is  effective  when  the  writer  wishes  to 
weave  into  the  account  minute  or  numerous  data  which, 
if  placed  at  the  beginning,  would  fail  to  hold  the  reader, 
whose  interest  is  as  yet  unstirred.  Flute  and  Violin  or 
Henry  Esmond,  already  cited,  are  instances  of  the  ef- 


50    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

f ective  use  of  this  variation  from  the  conventional  narra- 
tive order.  It  is  apparent  that  in  this,  as  in  the  second 
method,  the  thread  of  uninterrupted  coherence  is  dis- 
tinctly broken,  but  here,  too,  success  is  dependent  upon 
so  arousing  the  reader's  curiosity  that  he  will  take  un- 
consciously the  leap  from  the  intermediate  to  the  initial 
details  of  the  transaction. 

B.  EPISODIC  NARRATION 
(i)  Unity 

The  rhetorical  considerations  that  underlie  episodic 
narration  are  but  an  enlargement  of  those  already  dis- 
cussed in  relation  to  the  item,  because  of  the  broader 
external  relations  that  enter  into  the  question.  To  the 
writer  of  episodic  narration  the  immediate  subject  in 
hand  is  not  sufficient;  he  must  keep  constantly  before 
him  the  larger  theme  of  which  his  episode  forms  but  a 
part.  Each  event  must  be  chronicled  with  constant 
thought  of  its  relations  to  the  whole.  Delicate  matters 
like  "central  theme,"  "consistent  point  of  view,"  "con- 
sistency of  treatment,"  "unity  of  general  effect,"  enter 
materially  into  the  problem.  This  is  a  broader  unity 
than  that  of  the  item,  in  which  perhaps  the  most  impor- 
tant cpnsideration  is  that  there  shall  be  no  digression 
from  the  item-topic. 

The  writer  of  history, — which  is,  of  course,  highly 
episodic  narration,  —  in  order  to  secure  unity  of  impres- 
sion, must  select  some  central,  dominant  theme  to 
which  all  parts  shall  contribute.  The  logical  relations  of. 
cause  and  effect  (see  p.  4)  will  be  important  elements 
and  will  show,  it  may  be,  how  the  various  episodes  result 
in  great  historical  events  or  produce  eminent  historical 
characters.  The  French  Revolution,  for  example,  will 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  NARRATIVE  FORMS    51 

not  stand  out  in  the  midst  of  embracing  narrative  en- 
vironment, complete  in  itself,  but  the  account  of  that 
great  convulsion  will  be  presented  with  constant  con- 
templation of  the  events  that  contributed  to  it,  and  of 
those  that  resulted  from  it.  The  account  of  a  great  life 
will  be  constructed  in  the  constant  light  of  early  influ- 
ences, of  environment,  of  growing  character.  In  each 
case  all  the  episodes  will  combine  to  form  one  consistent, 
homogeneous  whole.  Clearly,  it  is  easier  and  more  prac- 
ticable to  accomplish  this  in  a  biography  or  in  a  limited 
field  than  in  a  complete  history  of  a  people.  Hence, 
writers  of  history,  feeling  the  unity  of  individual  epi- 
sodes, often  elect  to  write  upon  "periods"  rather  than  to 
attempt  the  broader  themes.  Thus  we  have  Macaulay's 
History  of  England  from  the  Accession  of  James  II.  to 
William  777.,  Carlyle's  French  Revolution,  Freeman's  His- 
tory of  the  Norman  Conquest,  Froude's  History  of  England 
from  the  Fall  of  Wolsey  to  the  Defeat  of  the  Armada.  Nor 
is  it  surprising  that  in  those  greater  histories  that  cover 
the  entire  field,  like  Green's  Short  History  of  the  English 
People  or  Hume's  History  of  England  or  Grote's  History 
of  Greece,  one  feels  to  some  extent  the  unity  of  the  vari- 
ous episodes.  They  seem  indeed  "a  collection  of  the 
histories  of  the  several  epochs  in  one  aggregation  rather 
than  a  separate  history  by  itself."  Yet  even  in  these 
more  extended  "aggregations,"  as- well  as  in  the  more 
restricted  themes  first  mentioned,  we  are  aware  of  a  dis- 
tinct unity  of  treatment  resulting  from  the  attitude  of 
the  writer  to  his  subject.  Throughout  the  historic  work 
of  Gibbon,  for  instance,  the  critic  detects  what  Saints- 
bury  has  termed  "an  attitude  of  belittlement  towards 
Christianity  in  particular,  though  not  much  more  to 
Christianity  than  to  all  forms  of  '  enthusiastic  religion.' " 
1  Short  History  of  English  Literature:  Saintsbury. 


52    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

In  Hume  a  skeptical  attitude  toward  religion  is  mani- 
fest in  his  expository  as  well  as  in  his  narrative  writing, 
and  in  Carlyle  a  wdnderful  power  of  visualizing  with 
dramatic  energy  the  scenes  and  the  personages  moves 
through  the  pages.  The  necessity  of  observing  these 
phases  of  rhetorical  unity  renders  historic  narration  a 
most  difficult  and  highly  artistic  form  of  .prose  com- 
position. 

In  fiction  there  is  the  same  necessity  for  a  broad  unity. 
Whether  in  the  short-story  or  in  the  complete  novel,  there 
is  always  the  dominating  theme,  which  in  the  original 
definition  we  called  the  "event,"  the  "occurrence,"  the 
"transaction."  The  title  will  sometimes  afford  a  hint  as 
to  this  essential  core,  or  nucleus;  as  in  Maupassant's 
Happiness,  in  Edward  Everett  Hale's  My  Double  and 
How  He  Undid  Me,  in  Thackeray's  Vanity  Fair,  or  in 
Margaret  Deland's  Awakening  of  Helena  Ritchie.  But 
whether  this  central  theme  is  revealed  in  the  title  or  not, 
the  consciousness  of  it  gives  unity  to  the  complete  com- 
position. Nor  is  this  all.  As  in  historic  narration,  so  in 
fiction,  the  manner  of  treatment  serves  the  same  end. 
In  Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles,  for  example,  the  reader  is 
never  allowed  to  forget  Hardy's  attitude  of  protest 
against  the  existing  order,  his  underlying  assumption 
that  this  is  a  God-forgotten  world.  A  far  different  senti- 
ment pervades  Adam  Bede,  a  story  dealing  with  much 
the  same  theme  as  Tess.  One  narrative  is  dark;  the 
other,  bright.  Tess  is  a  cry  of  despair;  Adam  Bede  shows 
a  ray  of  hope.  Dickens  wrote  in  his  own  peculiar 
atmosphere  of  optimism;  Thackeray,  in  one  of  satire. 
In  the  field  of  the  short-story  the  lurid  imagination  and 
the  morbidness  of  Poe  give  distinct  consistency  of  tone 
to  The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher;  and  the  idealism  of 
Hawthorne  is  equally  apparent  in  The  Great  Stone  Face. 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  NARRATIVE  FORMS    53 

A  story  of  Kipling's,  like  The  Man  Who  Would  be  King, 
is  not  likely  to  be  attributed  to  Gilbert  Parker:  each  has 
a  consistent  individuality  of  its  own,  resulting  in  what 
we  call  unity  of  tone. 

This  peculiar  atmosphere  of  one-ness,  characteristic 
of  episodic  narrative  composition,  may  be  easily  dis- 
tinguished in  Hewlett's  Miracle  of  the  Peach  Tree  (from 
The  Madonna  of  the  Peach  Tree  in  Little  Novels  of  Italy) . l 
In  this  brief  selection  the  leading  episodes  are  (1)  With 
the  herd-boys  outside  Porta  San  Zeno;  (2)  The  sudden 
apparition  of  the  lady;  (3)  Don  Gaspare's  interpreta- 
tion of  the  mystery;  and  (4)  The  consecration  of  the  relic. 
These  episodes  individually  and  collectively  are  unified 
by  the  sense  of  something  quite  unearthly,  by  the  air  of 
pervading  superstition,  and  by  the  rustic  simplicity  of 
the  actors.  The  wonderful  star-shine,  the  mysterious 
sounds  of  the  summer  night,  the  ghostly  approach  and 
departure  of  the  lady,  the  breathless  suspense  and  half- 
hearted courage  of  the  little  herd-boys,  the  ready  cred- 
ulity of  the  parish  priest  and  his  ruffling  into  town  with 
the  news  of  the  miraculous  vision,  —  all  these  details 
unite  to  give  the  composition  as  a  whole  a  congruous  and 
consistent  spirit  that  in  large  degree  determines  its  liter- 
ary value. 

(2)  Emphasis 

We  have  shown  that  in  the  narrative  item  em- 
phasis is  largely  a  matter  of  arrangement  for  ef- 
fectively bringing  out  the  cardinal  idea,  and  that  it  is 
limited,  in  great  degree,  to  the  climactic  ordering  of  sen- 
tence elements.  In  episodic  composition,  the  considera- 
tion of  emphasis  is  but  a  continuation  of  the  same  general 

1  Quoted  in  Carpenter  and  Brewster's  Modern  English  Prose. 


54    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

principle.  The  consideration  of  phrases,  clauses,  and  sen- 
tences is  supplemented  by  that  of  successive  episodes 
and  the  problem  of  how  they  shall  be  so  arranged  as 
to  bring  out  with  effectiveness  the  culmination  toward 
which  the  narrative  as  a  whole  is  directed.  It  is  there- 
fore apparent  that  in  episodic  narration  emphasis  is  of  a 
two-fold  nature:  it  is  a  matter  of  sentence  mechanics, 
—  of  what  we  may  call  external  style,  —  and,  more 
than  that,  of  selection  and  judgment  as  to  the  relative 
position,  order,  and  importance  of  the  constituent  epi- 
sodes, irrespective  of  the  style  in  which  they  may  be 
phrased.  Yet  these  two  elements  must  go  hand  in  hand. 
A  writer  may  possess  all  the  phrasal  vigor  of  Macaulay 
or  of  G.  K.  Chesterton,  but,  if  he  lack  the  dramatic 
/sense  whereby  the  natural  story-teller  so  masses  his 
/  details  as  to  provoke  suspense  and  to  attain  climax,  his 
1  narrative  will  lag.  On  the  other  hand,  even  if  a  writer 
have  the  story-teller's  instinct  in  all  the  perfection  of 
Scott  or  of  Stevenson,  he  will  gain  in  fervor,  in  energy, 
if  he  can  stimulate  the  narrative  with  the  red  blood 
of  effective  phraseology.  An  example  of  the  vigor  that 
comes  from  the  effective  massing  of  episodes  may  be 
found  in  Aldrich's  Marjorie  Daw.  In  this  story  the 
essential  point  of  the  entire  narrative  is  cleverly  kept  out 
of  sight  to  the  very  end,  and  there  flashed  upon  the 
reader  with  startling  vividness.  Another  instance  of 
effective  arrangement  appears  in  James  Lane  Allen's 
Flute  and  Violin,  —  not  so  much  in  the  dramatic  climax 
as  in  the  ordering  of  the  episodic  details  in  such  a  way 
that  interest  is  consistently  maintained.  Every  episode 
bears  intimately  upon  its  neighbor.  The  action  moves 
rapidly,  now  forward,  now  backward.  One  event  eluci- 
dates another,  and  the  story  in  its  entirety  possesses  not 
only  coherence  but  a  power  that  compels  interest. 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  NARRATIVE  FORMS    55 

Then  again,  the  writer  of  episodic  narration,  if  his 
work  is  to  possess  animation,  —  another  name  for  this 
same  rhetorical  quality,  —  must  make  his  account  move. 
More  than  that,  as  one  writer  has  said,  the  story  must 
not  only  move,  it  must  move  on.  Marking  time  results 
in  dreariness.  Pirouettes  and  caracols  in  literary  expres- 
sion may  fill  the  reader  with  admiration  for  the  writer's 
rhetorical  agility,  but  they  do  not  advance  narration, 
which  by  its  very  definition  demands  action.  The  epi- 
sodes selected  by  the  author  must,  in  order  to  be  force- 
ful, present  two  characteristics:  (a)  they  must  in  them- 
selves have  interest,  and  (b)  they  must  promote  the 
movement  toward  the  completion  of  the  "  occurrence „" 
What  constitutes  interest  in  the  details  will,  of  course, 
differ  with  the  character  of  the  chronicle.  Details  that 
in  one  case  may  possess  the  dynamic  quality  may  in  an- 
other be  wholly  sedative.  In  a  story  like  The  Great  Stone 
Face  the  simple  episodes  of  Mr.  Gathergold's  return,  old 
Blood-and-Thunder's  visit,  and  the  other  little  ripples 
in  quiet  village  life  are  of  great  import  in  view  of  the  alle- 
gorical basis  of  the  story;  but  in  a  narrative  instinct  with 
dramatic  force  or  intricate  with  plot  complication  they 
would  be  prosaic  enough.  Furthermore,  the  selected  epi- 
sodes must  hurry  the  constituent  details  along  to  their 
logical  conclusion.  The  episodes  indicated  on  page  4 
as  the  essential  parts  of  Silas  Marner  illustrate  this. 
They  secure  progress  and  the  narrative  moves  distinctly 
forward  toward  the  weaver's  closing  days  of  content  and 
to  the  completion  of  his  regeneration.  Considerations 
like  these  are  intimately  connected  with  plot  structure, 
and  will  receive  fuller  treatment  in  a  later  chapter. 

It  may  be  noted  at  this  point  that  in  historic  narra- 
tion the  writer  has  less  freedom  in  the  manipulation  of 
his  episodes  than  has  the  writer  of  fiction.  Lockhart,  in 


56    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

his  biography  of  Scott,  was  far  more  limited  in  the  order- 
ing of  his  data  than  was  Scott  in  arranging  the  various 
episodes  of  Ivanhoe,  The  writer  of  fiction  can,  for  the 
exigencies  of  emphasis  or  dramatic  effect,  leap  over  a 
dozen  years,  to  resume  later  the  interrupted  thread  or  to 
leave  the  gap  blank,  as  his  judgment  may  dictate.  The 
chronicler  of  fact,  however,  may  seldom  resort  to  artifice, 
but  is  bound  to  the  prosaic  order  of  actual  occurrence, 
save  as  several  parallel  episodes  may  permit  him  to  com- 
plete one  and  then  revert  to  another  that  he  may  develop 
it  in  turn  and  thus  bring  several  simultaneous  events 
down  to  one  starting  point  for  further  continuance  of  the 
record.  This  method  of  the  historian  is  affected  by  Scott 
in  three  successive  chapters  of  Ivanhoe  (xxii,  xxiii,  xxiv). 
In  the  first,  we  are  in  the  dungeon  beneath  Torquilstone, 
where  Front  de  Bceuf  threatens  Isaac  of  York  in  the 
effort  to  extort  a  thousand  silver  pounds.  In  the  second, 
De  Bracy  presses  his  attentions  upon  the  Lady  Rowena, 
while  the  events  just  indicated  are  taking  place  below. 
And  in  the  third,  in  the  chamber  of  Rebecca,  the  perse- 
cution of  the  Jew's  daughter  by  the  disguised  Templar 
is  interrupted  by  the  trumpet  of  the  besiegers  outside  the 
castle  walls.  All  of  these  chapters  represent  exactly 
simultaneous  action  and  each  brings  its  respective  epi- 
sode to  completion  before  the  story  is  resumed  in  the 
chapter  that  succeeds  the  last  of  the  series. 

(3)  Proportion 

Closely  allied  to  emphasis  is  proportion.  This  plays  no 
great  part  in  narrative  composition  until  the  item  devel- 
ops into  episodic  composition.  So  simple  are  the  details 
of  the  isolated  occurrence  that  no  one  detail  is  likely  to 
be  so  grossly  exaggerated  above  the  rest  as  to  disturb 
the  equilibrium  of  the  complete  chronicle.  In  episodic 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  NARRATIVE  FORMS    57 

narration,  however,  with  the  increased  complexity  of 
the  integral  units,  comes  the  danger  that  over-elabora- 
tion in  some  one  part  will  disturb  the  general  effect  of 
the  whole.  Digressions  are  often  attractive.  Enticing 
side-paths  draw  one  from  the  beaten  track,  and  the 
reader  finds  himself  in  the  predicament  of  the  Red  Cross 
Knight  in  Error's  "wandering  wood."  Every  reader  of 
Tom  Jones  remembers  the  Man  of  the  Hill,  and  how  the 
entire  narrative  is  halted  while  this  apparently  superero- 
gatory episode  drowses  along  its  dreary  course,  and  the 
main  current  of  the  story  is  resumed  with  difficulty. 
Sometimes  a  fondness  for  description  beguiles  the  writer 
into  the  elaboration  of  setting  until  the  narrative  ele- 
ment is  completely  dwarfed.  Again,  expositions  of  char- 
acter, important  enough  in  their  way,  usurp  the  place  of 
action,  and  the  narrative  becomes  but  a  study  in  psycho-  y 
logic  analysis,  as  is  more  than  once  the  case  in  Daniel 
Deronda  and  Romola.  And  these  violations  of  propor- 
tion carry  with  them  loss  of  narrative  vitality. 

In  historical  and  biographical  narration  there  is  less 
likelihood  than  in  fiction  of  destroying  emphasis  by  the 
violation  of  true  episodic  proportion.  The  chronicler  of 
fact,  —  if  he  be  a  historian  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word, 
—  will  be  restrained  by  a  saving  sanity  as  to  relative 
values.  No  heat  of  passion  will  make  him  unscrupulous, 
and  his  regard  for  the  truth  will  prevent  his  wandering 
from  the  way.  As  soon  as  the  historian  is  discov- 
ered to  be  a  rider  of  hobbies  just  so  soon  the  discerning 
reader  will  discount  his  statements,  however  forceful 
the  phrasing.  Doing  violence  to  true  proportion,  dis- 
torting the  truth  through  personal  bias  and  prejudice, 
he  will  be  only  superficially  forceful  and  his  vigor  will 
neither  persuade  nor  convince.  The  emphatic  periods  of 
Macaulay  are  viewed  with  distrust  because  to  him  Wil- 


58    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

liam  was  the  sole  measure  of  all  that  could  be  termed 
kingly  and  a  Whig  the  perfect  type  of  true  patriotism. 
His  force  becomes  therefore  merely  the  force  of  expres- 
sion, and  lacks  the"  greater  emphasis  that  comes  with  a 
sane  and  catholic  attitude  to  history. 

(4)  Coherence 

Coherence  as  an  element  in  episodic  narration  is  so 
closely  related  to  the  complication  of  details  known  as 
"plot"  that  a  thorough  discussion  may  best  be  post- 
poned until  that  phase  of  the  subject  is  taken  up.  In 
general,  however,  it  may  be  said  that  episodic  coherence 
concerns  itself  mainly  with  the  succession  of  the  constitu- 
ent events  and  not  so  much  with  the  mere  matter  of  con- 
nectives as  does  the  item.  Of  course  the  question  of 
clause  articulation  does  not  entirely  disappear  as  an  ele- 
ment to  be  reckoned  with, — coherence  is  a  constant  rhe- 
torical quality  of  style,  —  but  in  weaving  his  narrative 
the  writer  gives  increased  attention  to  the  problem  of 
order.  The  simple  conjunctives  are  now  superseded  by 
paragraphs  or  sentences  of  transition,  so  called,  familiar 
to  all  students  of  rhetoric,  and  exemplified  in  the  analysis 
of  the  story  to  follow  (pp.  59-64). 

Mere  chronology,  however,  is  not  all  that  the  narra- 
tive writer  now  has  to  deal  with.  The  logical  sequence 
of  cause  and  effect  as  manifested  in  character  and  action 
plays  a  very  important  part,  —  more  important,  if  pos- 
sible, than  in  securing  unity.  The  historian  and  the 
biographer  are  not  satisfied  with  the  mere  arrangement 
of  their  material  in  the  order  of  time.  They  must  show 
that  the  events  of  one  epoch  are  the  logical  outcome  of 
preceding  periods;  that,  unlike  as  may  be  Puritan  Eng- 
land to  the  England  of  two  centuries  earlier,  yet  the  evo- 
lution of  the  one  into  the  other  may  be  traced.  They 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  NARRATIVE  FORMS    59 

must  convince  their  readers  that  the  personality  of  the 
mature  statesman  or  of  the  poet  is  in  entire  harmony 
with  the  character,  the  environment,  the  promise  of  ear- 
lier youth.  The  writer  of  fiction,  whether  it  be  of  intri- 
cate plot  narratives  like  those  by  Conan  Doyle,  Wilkie 
Collins,  and  Anna  Katherine  Green,  or  of  character  stud- 
ies like  the  novels  of  George  Eliot  and  Mrs.  Humphry 
Ward,  is  under  obligations  to  see  the  end  from  the  be- 
ginning and  to  develop  the  action  coherently  in  accord 
with  the  natural  sequence  of  experience  and  human  na- 
ture. Failure  to  observe  the  canons  of  coherence  con- 
demns the  narrative  as  unnatural,  illogical,  impossible. 
In  view  of  all  this,  one  can  readily  see  that  coherence 
is  closely  allied  to  unity  and  to  emphasis.  In  order  to 
secure  that  subtile  one-ness  that  gives  totality  to  any 
well  written  account  of  a  transaction,  the  mutual  con- 
nection of  parts  and  their  best  order  must  be  considered. 
And,  again,  in  discovering  the  order  that  shall  best 
mass  these  parts  so  as  to  produce  the  fullness  of  drama- 
tic effect,  the  sequence  of  detail  after  detail  becomes  a 
matter  of  no  little  importance. 

What  has  been  said  regarding  the  various  rhetorical 
qualities  of  episodic  narration  may  be  epitomized  by  a 
concrete  illustration  drawn  from  Flute  and  Violin,  to 
which  reference  has  more  than  once  been  made. 

To  begin  with,  the  successive  principal  episodes  are 
indicated  by  the  sections  into  which  the  author  has  de- 
vided  his  narrative.  Arranged  with  suitable  titles  they 
stand  as  follows :  — 

THE  PARSON'S  MAGIC  FLUTE 

I.   The  Reverend  James  Moore. 
II.   The  Passing  of  the  Flute. 


60    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 


A  BOY'S  VIOLIN 

III.  David. 

IV.  The  Impressario. 

V.  Outside  the  Museum. 

VI.  Bliss. 

VII.  Misery. 

VIII.  Afterwards. 

If  we  examine  into  the  eight  episodes  that  constitute 
this  little  story,  we  shall  find  the  germ  of  the  whole  in 
one  brief  paragraph:  — 

As  time  passed  on  it  became  evident  that  some  grave  occur- 
rence indeed  had  befallen  him.  Thenceforth,  and  during  the 
five  remaining  years  of  his  life,  he  was  never  quite  the  same. 
For  months  his  faculties,  long  used  to  being  soothed  at  mid- 
night by  the  music  of  the  flute,  were  like  children  put  to  bed 
hungry  and  refused  to  be  quieted,  so  that  sleep  came  to  him 
only  after  hours  of  waiting  and  tossing,  and  his  health  suffered 
in  consequence.  And  then  in  all  things  he  lived  like  one  who 
was  watching  himself  closely  as  a  person  not  to  be  trusted. 

Unity  of  atmosphere  the  story  certainly  possesses, 
and  that  atmosphere  is  pathos,  —  the  pathos  of  tragedy 
arising  from  misunderstanding.  Everything  is  shaped  to 
the  exposition  of  this  one  idea:  the  simplicity,  the  gen- 
tleness, the  thorough  lovableness  of  the  one  principal 
actor;  the  wistfulness,  the  helplessness,  the  appealing 
isolation  of  the  other.  The  eccentricities  of  the  parson, 
the  selfishness  of  Tom,  the  humor  of  Widow  Spurlock 
and  of  Arsena  Furnace  —  in  fact  all  the  details  of  the 
action  —  blend  into  one  consistent  note  of  pathos.  No 
jarring  incongruity  mars  the  general  effect.  A  consist- 
ent point  of  view  is  maintained  throughout; 

Emphasis,  or  effective  massing,  in  Flute  and  Violin  re- 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  NARRATIVE  FORMS    61 

solves  itself  into  the  question  of  so  arranging  the  details 
of  the  story  as  to  hold  the  attention  of  the  reader.  In 
this  case  surprise  is  not  the  source  of  emotional  arouse- 
ment.  Effectiveness  does  not  demand  any  sudden  reve- 
lation of  concealed  mystery,  any  clever  unraveling  of 
complicated  details.  Rather,  the  reader's  interest  cen- 
tres in  the  pathetic  appeal  arising  from  the  accumulated 
evils  that  fall  to  the  fate  of  the  little  cripple  through  the 
seeming  thoughtlessness  of  the  loving  parson.  In  view 
of  these  conditions,  the  author  has  chosen  a  very  simple 
and  natural  mode  of  massing  his  story.  At  the  outset 
he  presents  a  brief  introduction  in  two  chapters.  This 
accomplishes  two  ends:  it  arouses  interest  in  the  kindly 
personality  of  the  Reverend  James  Moore,  and  it  im- 
plies that  in  the  current  of  his  simple  life  there  has  been 
an  eddy.  The  device  in  a  small  way  serves  the  purpose 
of  presenting  an  initial  mystery  that  must  be  solved. 
Then  follows  the  story  with  its  six  episodes.  These, 
despite  their  somewhat  complicated  ordering,  to  be  noted 
later  under  the  coherence  of  the  story,  carry  the  narra- 
tive step  by  step  to  its  culmination  in  the  tragedy  of 
David's  death,  followed  by  the  brief  conclusion  dealing 
with  the  saddened  later  days  of  James  Moore. 

And  thus  being  ever  the  more  loved  and  revered  as  he  grew 
ever  the  more  lovable  and  saint-like,  he  passed  onward  to  the 
close.  But  not  until  the  end  came  did  he  once  stretch  forth  a 
hand  to  touch  his  flute;  and  it  was  only  in  imagination  then 
that  he  grasped  it,  to  sound  the  final  roll-call  of  his  wandering 
faculties,  and  to  blow  a  last  good-night  to  his  tired  spirit. 

Thus  the  story  reaches  a  mild  climax,  and  the  massing 
is,  in  general,  that  of  a  chronological  succession  with  in- 
creasing emotional  force. 

The  study  of  coherence  in  Flute  and  Violin  brings  us 


62    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

to  the  manner  of  coupling  the  coherent  details  of  the 
story:  that  is,  to  an  analysis  of  its  plot-structure.  Tak- 
ing it  up  episode  by  episode,  we  note  the  following  facts : 
Episode  i  covers  in  a  general  way  the  years  from  1792, 
when  the  Reverend  James  Moore  first  came  to  Lexing- 
ton, to  1814,  the  close  of  his  life.  Here  we  have  a  bird's- 
eye  view  of  the  parson's  simple  life  with  the  closing  sug- 
gestion that  it  contained  an  event  of  unusual  interest, 
—  the  bond  coupling  the  episode  with  what  follows. 

Such  having  been  the  parson's  fixed  habit  as  long  as  any  one 
had  known  him,  it  is  hard  to  believe  that  five  years  before  his 
death  he  abruptly  ceased  to  play  his  flute  and  never  touched  it 
again.  But  from  this  point  the  narrative  becomes  so  mysteri- 
ous that  it  were  better  to  have  the  testimony  of  witnesses. 

In  episode  n  we  have  an  enlargement  of  what  was 
indicated  in  this  introduction,  but  expressed  in  vague 
terms,  forming  a  conclusion  to  what  has  preceded,  but 
indicating  something  to  follow  and  thus  leading  the  way 
to  the  story  proper.  The  concluding  words  'of  the  epi- 
sode serve  to  couple  it  with  what  follows  and  to  introduce 
the  main  action  contained  in  episode  in:  — 

If  any  one  should  feel  interested  in  having  this  whole  mys- 
tery cleared  up,  he  may  read  the  following  tale  of  a  boy's 
violin. 

In  the  third  episode  the  main  action  centres  about 
David  on  the  day  of  the  great  lottery,  —  Friday,  Au- 
gust 31,  1809,  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning.  During 
the  episode  the  action  reverts  by  three  years  to  the  time 
when  David's  father  had  died,  and  again  by  one  year  to 
the  day  when  Mr.  Leuba  had  promised  to  bestow  on 
David  the  discarded  violin.  But  these  back-casts  of  the 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  NARRATIVE  FORMS    63 

action  are  wholly  subordinate,  and  do  not  detract  from 
the  time-setting  of  the  main  episode. 

The  episode  following,  the  fourth,  brings  the  reader  to 
a  scene  two  hours  later  on  this  same  Friday  morning, 
again  with  two  slight  reversions  to  incidents  occurring 
between  this  and  the  preceding  occurrence,  —  David's 
visit  home  and  the  announcement  of  the  drawing  in  the 
lottery.  By  the  introduction  of  these  two  minor  details 
the  coherence  becomes  almost  continuous,  and  the  story 
is  brought  to  the  fifth  episode. 

This  takes  up  the  narrative  and  continues  it  through 
the  afternoon  and  twilight  of  the  same  day. 

The  sixth  takes  the  reader  through  the  following  day, 
Saturday,  September  1,  by  four  distinct  and  separate 
episodes  of  the  second  order  (p.  28)  as  follows:  (a)  early 
in  the  day,  at  the  church;  (b)  at  dinner  with  the  Leubas 
and  their  merry  company;  (c)  in  the  afternoon,  at  the 
Museum;  and  (d)  later,  at  home,  where  the  parson  exe- 
cutes the  mystic  manoeuvres  noted  by  observing  eyes 
across  the  way,  as  described  in  the  second  episode  of 
the  story. 

The  next  episode  is  introduced  by  a  brief  transitional 
paragraph:  — 

A  sad  day  it  had  been  meantime  for  the  poor  lad. 

The  entire  episode  reverts  from  the  point  at  which  the 
preceding  scene  closed,  Saturday  afternoon,  back  to  the 
morning  of  the  same  day,  and  concerns  itself  with  the 
experiences  of  David,  as  the  preceding  has  done  with 
the  parson*  The  fortunes  of  the  little  cripple  follow  in 
order:  (a)  in  the  morning,  at  home  and  at  the  Museum; 
(b)  in  the  afternoon,  at  the  Museum,  at  the  parson's  door 
(as  already  narrated  in  episode  n)  and  again  at  the 
Museum;  (c)  about  nightfall,  at  the  end  of  the  town, 


64    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

at  Leuba's  store,  and  finally  at  home.  This  simultane- 
ous ordering  of  vi  and  vn  presents  an  example  of  the 
device  referred  to  on  page  56  and  holds  the  action  sta- 
tionary for  the  time  being. 

Episode  vm  resumes  the  story  on  Sunday  morning, 
September  2,  follows  it  through  the  morning  and  after- 
noon with  David  and  through  the  evening  at  Mr.  Moore's, 
and  again  reverts  to  David  at  the  hour  of  the  boy's  death 
early  on  Monday  morning.  It  then  takes  a  leap  to  Sep- 
tember 9,  the  Sunday  following,  and  closes  with  a  brief 
retrospect  of  the  parson's  remaining  years  (already 
quoted  on  page  61),  a  good  example  of  the  "concluding 
paragraph." 

The  story  thus  affords  illustration  of  how  the  element 
of  time,  with  slight  modifications,  secures  the  coherence 
of  an  "orderly  recital."  First  a  general  survey  of  the 
action  to  its  culmination,  and  then  a  reversion  to  the  be- 
ginning, followed  by  a  detailed  recital  of  the  successive 
events  in  their  chronological  order.  The  smooth  and 
natural  issuance  of  one  episode  from  another,  the  close 
relation  of  each  detail  to  what  precedes  and  to  what  fol- 
lows, shows  further  the  close  association  between  co- 
herence and  unity  of  action.  With  greater  complication 
of  incident  and  with  more  intricacy  of  massing  so  as  to 
secure  added  interest  would  come  the  development  of 
plot  characteristic  of  the  detective  story  or  of  the  novel. 
Flute  and  Violin,  however,  with  its  general  adherence  to 
the  actual  sequence  of  time,  is  constructed  after  the 
method  of  veritable  history. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  BACKGROUND  OF  THE  ACTION:  SETTING 

IF  one  examines  a  complete  piece  of  narration,  — 
Maupassant's  Happiness  (Le  Bonheur)  for  instance,  — 
he  will,  in  most  cases,  be  able  to  distinguish  three 
separate  elements  that  together  constitute  the  story. 
First  of  all  is  the  stage  upon  which  the  action  takes 
place,  the  background  against  which  the  scene  is  pro- 
jected. This  element  is  known  as  SETTING.  In  the  story 
just  cited  it  is  represented  by  Corsica  with  its  storm  of 
mountains  and  rolling  torrents,  its  high  forests  and 
desert  soil,  its  untutored  inhabitants,  deaf  and  blind  even 
to  the  crude  arts  of  ordinary  peasantry.  Against  this 
rude  and  inhospitable  background  the  story  of  devoted 
love  stands  out  in  brilliant  vividness.  Setting  is  an  in- 
tegral part  of  the  story:  remove  it,  or  even  alter  it,  and 
the  effect  of  the  narrative  is  changed. 

The  second  essential  to  the  structure  of  a  narrative  is 
CHARACTER,  and  this  is  presented  in  the  dramatis  per- 
sonce.  In  Maupassant's  story  this  appears  primarily 
in  the  aged  hero  and  heroine,  and  subordinately  in  the 
several  minor  personages,  such  as  the  narrator,  the 
Brisemares,  the  Sirmonts,  etc. 

The  third  element  is  PLOT,  or  the  action  participated 
in  by  the  characters  and  projected  upon  the  given  set- 
ting. The  main  plot  of  Happiness  is,  of  course,  con- 
cerned with  the  elopement  of  Suzanne  de  Sirmont  and 
the  young  hussar,  and  with  their  humble  life  on  the 
bleak  island  of  the  Mediterranean. 


66    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

These,  then,  are  the  three  fundamentals  of  complete 
narrative  writing:  setting,  character,  plot.  In  some  nar- 
ratives one  is  elaborated  at  the  expense  of  the  others;  in 
some,  as  in  Happiness,  each  is  distinct.  Setting,  from 
its  very  nature,  does  not  exist  for  its  own  sake,  being  but 
the  background  for  more  important  elements.  Setting, 
indeed,  is  often  entirely  omitted,  or,  at  least,  so  sup- 
pressed that  some  little  study  is  necessary  to  detect  it. 
The  Parable  of  the  Prodigal  Son  illustrates  this.  The 
"far  country,"  the  "riotous  living,"  the  "elder  brother 
in  the  field,"  and  the  "sounds  of  music  and  dancing" 
suggest  details  easily  capable  of  elaboration;  but  the 
story  as  it  stands  is  constructed  mainly  on  a  foundation 
of  character  (the  younger  son,  the  father,  the  elder 
brother)  and  of  plot  (the  spendthrift  life,  the  repent- 
ance, the  forgiveness). 

Plot  and  character,  usually  with  the  aid  of  setting, 
divide  between  them  much  of  the  best  narrative  writing. 
This  is  well  illustrated  in  extended  prose  fiction.  We 
have,  on  the  one  hand,  novels  in  which  the  principal  stress 
is  given  to  the  personal  element;  and,  on  the  other,  those 
wherein  deeds  are  all-important.  Novelists  like  George 
Eliot  and  George  Meredith  afford  illustrations  of  the 
first;  Scott  and  Stevenson,  of  the  second.  Although 
Daniel  Deronda  and  The  Egoist  present  no  small  amount 
of  setting  and  plot,  yet,  after  all,  in  the  portrayal  of 
character  —  the  careful  study  of  Gwendolyn  Harleth 
and  of  Sir  Willoughby  Patterne  —  lies  the  main  pur- 
pose. On  the  other  hand,  the  principal  concern  of  Scott 
and  Stevenson  is  to  tell  a  good  story,  to  arouse  interest 
in  the  action,  not  to  dissect  motives  or  to  conduct  psycho- 
logic experiments.  Rob  Roy  and  The  Master  of  Ballantrce 
indeed  contain  many  memorable  scenes  and  present  per- 
sonalities vivid  in  their  truth  to  actual  life,  but  the  for- 


THE  BACKGROUND  OF  THE  ACTION       67 

tunes  of  the  house  of  Osbaldistone  and  of  Ballantrse  are 
of  greater  structural  importance  than  is  the  personality 
of  Baillie  Nicol  Jarvie  or  of  James  Durie. 

SETTING  DEFINED 

Setting  may  be  defined  as  the  background  of  the 
action  in  a  narrative;  it  usually  presents  (1)  the  time 
and  (2)  the  place  of  that  action.  If  we  revert  to  our 
original  definition  of  narration,  we  shall  see  that  setting 
is  not  an  integral  part  of  the  process,  but  is  rather  a 
device  for  the  more  effective  presentation  of  the  action. 
In  so  far  as  this  is  true,  setting  would  seem,  as  a  matter 
of  rhetorical  consideration,  to  be  allied  to  emphasis. 
Again,  however,  as  a  definite  exposition  of  place  and  time 
often  enter  into  and  harmonize  the  constituent  parts  of 
the  entire  action,  giving  an  essential  one-ness  of  effect  to 
the  account  in  its  entirety,  setting  is  closely  associated 
also  with  unity.  Happiness  presents  an  excellent  illus- 
tration of  the  pervading  harmony  of  effect  that  may 
come  from  artistic  setting. 

Setting  may  be  divided  into  two  distinct  classes:  (a) 
expository  and  (b)  dramatic.  Expository  setting  pre- 
sents background  for  the  clearer  understanding  of  the 
action;  that  is,  its  function  is  purely  intellectual.  Dra- 
matic setting,  on  the  other  hand,  is  emoijonal;  its  pur- 
pose is  to  intensify  the  action,  to  make  it  more  effective, 
more  vivid,  more  thrilling. 

EXPOSITORY  AND  DRAMATIC   SETTING 

When  the  newspaper  account  of  a  political  conven- 
tion, of  a  railway  accident,  or  of  a  robbery  is  prefaced  by 
a  carefully  elaborated  exposition  of  the  scene  of  action, 
abounding  in  painstaking  detail  and  accompanied  by 
photographic  illustration,  its  purpose  is  not  only  to  in- 


68    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

crease  interest  in  the  account  but  to  identify,  to  make 
thoroughly  intelligible  to  the  reader,  the  details  that 
follow.  The  appeal  is  to  the  understanding;  not  to  the 
emotions. 

The  following  undergraduate  attempts  at  expository 
setting,  based  upon  actual  observation,  serve  this  in- 
tellectual purpose.  The  subject  from  which  each  one 
is  drawn  appears  in  the  appended  cut. 


A  comparison  of  the  two  examples  illustrates  also  how 
the  power  of  observation  varies  in  different  persons :  the 
author  of  the  first  sketch  is  apparently  gifted  with  the 
ability  to  catch  essential  details;  and  the  author  of  the 
second  is  not,  with  the  result  that  the  outlines  of  his  pic- 
ture are  so  vague,  so  lacking  in  definiteness,  as  to  furnish 
scant  material  for  one  who  should  attempt  from  the 
details  presented  to  reproduce  the  object  described. 


THE  BACKGROUND  OF  THE  ACTION       69 

(a)  Before  entering  the  village  by  the  main  street,  as  I  was 
returning  from  a  walk  one  October  afternoon,  I  stopped  at  the 
bridge  over  the  little  stream  which  at  the  foot  of  the  last  hill 
runs  nearly  north  and  south.  While  I  was  resting  there,  lean- 
ing on  the  railing  at  the  side  of  the  bridge,  my  attention  was 
attracted  to  a  two-story  white  building  across  the  stream, 
about  twenty-five  or  thirty  paces  to  the  left  of  the  road. 

The  main  building  was  oblong.  A  little  lower  than  the 
ridge-pole  and  midway  across  the  front  a  gable  projected,  sup- 
ported by  four  large  white  pillars,  and  serving  as  a  covering  to 
a  small  porch.  On  the  left  of  the  house  a  veranda  extended 
to  a  low  shed  attached  at  right  angles  to  the  main  struc- 
ture and  extending  out  about  twenty  feet.  The  roof  of  the 
veranda  sloped  upward  until  it  met  the  main  building  just 
below  the  windows  of  the  second  story,  and,  like  the  roof  of  the 
main  portion,  it  was  covered  with  weather-beaten  shingles. 
The  ridge-pole  of  the  shed  was  lower  than  that  of  the  house 
itself,  —  so  low,  in  fact,  that  the  only  use  to  which  the  shed 
could  be  put  was  that  of  woodhouse  or  storeroom.  It  was 
partly  obscured  by  a  large  willow  tree,  growing  on  the  bank 
of  the  stream  at  some  distance  from  the  dwelling. 

The  house  was  built  of  wood,  and  stood  on  a  foundation  of 
white  marble,  one  layer  of  which  could  be  seen  above  the 
ground.  The  main  part  of  the  house  was  painted  white,  and 
with  its  green  shutters  and  four  white  pillars  supporting,  the 
gable  in  front,  it  looked  like  an  old  colonial  mansion  on  a 
somewhat  small  scale. 

In  front  of  the  dwelling  were  four  great  maples,  their  leaves 
a  blaze  of  color.  A  little  to  the  right  of  the  house,  stood  a 
single  elm.  The  approach  to  the  front  porch  was  by  a  cinder 
path,  directly  in  front  and  nearly  straight,  turning  slightly 
to  the  east  and  terminating  in  three  steps.  Another  path  of 
the  same  material  led  from  the  front  porch  to  the  side  veranda, 
which  was  about  four  steps  from  the  ground.  Between  the 
two  paths  and  the  point  where  I  stood,  a  road  entered  the 
yard,  and  wound  to  the  left,  around  an  oval  plot  of  grass  in 
front  of  the  shed.  The  lawn  in  front  of  the  house  and  within 


70    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

the  turn  of  the  road  was  thickly  strewn  with  leaves,  and  on 
every  hand  the  signs  of  approaching  winter  were  visible. 

As  I  stood  making  a  mental  note  of  these  details,  suddenly 
—  etc. 

(6)  As  one  passes  up  the  main  street  of  the  village  past  the 
lodge  of  the  Alpha  Omega  fraternity,  he  soon  reaches  the 
bridge  leading  over  Willow  Brook.  At  some  distance  from 
this  point  and  to  the  right  of  the  road  stands  a  large  white 
frame  house.  A  low  porch,  standing  at  the  center  of  the  front 
part  of  the  building,  is  almost  half  occupied  with  four  large 
columns.  They  extend  upward  about  a  story  and  a  half  and 
support  a  projecting  part  of  the  third  story. 

These  tall  columns  and  the  white  color  of  the  house  give  it  a 
distinctly  colonial  air.  The  porch  is  painted  brown  and  the 
shutters  are  green.  Were  it  not  for  the  weather-beaten  and 
somewhat  dismantled  appearance  of  the  shingled  roof,  the 
house  might  impress  one  as  being  new. 

Here  it  was  that  —  etc. 

In  each  of  these  pictures,  preliminary  to  details  of 
action,  the  same  purpose  is  evident:  the  writer  is  pre- 
senting his  setting  for  the  purpose  of  identification,  in 
order  to  objectify  the  scene  that  the  reader  may  follow 
it  intelligently. 

Illustration  of  how  pure  exposition  or  description 
shades  off  into  what  we  have  called  expository  set- 
ting appears  in  the  two  selections  following,  chosen 
respectively  from  Windle's  The  Wessex  of  Thomas  Hardy 
and  from  Hardy's  Far  from  the  Madding  Croivd.  Both 
have  to  do  with  the  same  subject,  the  little  church  at 
Puddletown,  or  "  Weatherbury"  as  the  novelist  has  re- 
christened  the  place  in  his  Wessex  stories. 

A  little  further  on  again,  and  we  enter  Puddletown,  the 
Weatherbury  of  "Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd,"  and,  as  we 


THE  BACKGROUND  OF  THE  ACTION        71 

enter  the  village,  we  shall  see,  opposite  to  the  principal  inn,  a 
grey  house  behind  a  high  wall,  which  occupies  the  position  of 
the  farm  over  which  Bathsheba  Everdene  presided.  It  corre- 
sponds to  it,  however,  in  position  only,  for  the  building  from 
which  its  structural  characteristics  were  drawn  is  at  some 
little  distance  off,  and  has  yet  to  be  seen.  The  church  is  the 
first  object  of  interest,  and  is  well  worthy  of  careful  study 
for  its  own  intrinsic  merits,  apart  altogether  from  its  con- 
nection with  the  story,  since  it  is  about  the  only  edifice  of 
its  kind  in  Dorsetshire  which  has  been  so  fortunate  as  to  escape 
the  hands  of  the  "restorer."  It  contains  a  fine  Jacobean  gal- 
lery, in  which  the  voice  of  Gabriel  Oak  used  to  be  heard  as  he 
sang  bass  in  the  choir,  a  very  beautiful  and  almost  unique 
Norman  font,  and  some  fine  tombs,  amongst  them  many  be- 
longing to  the  family  of  Martin,  which  formerly  occupied  the 
stately  house  of  Athelhampton  not  far  from  the  village.  The 
porch,  in  which  Troy  slept  on  the  night  after  Fanny  Robin's 
funeral,  is  that  on  the  north  side,  and  cannot  be  said  to  have 
been  improved  by  the  dado  of  encaustic  tiles  with  which  it  has 
been  bedecked.  The  fine  tower  is  battlemented,  as  Mr.  Hardy 
describes,  but  the  gurgoyles  are  not  specially  remarkable. 
Perhaps  he  added  to  it  some  of  those  at  Sydling  St.  Nicholas, 
no  very  great  distance  off,  which  are  as  grotesque  as  the 
medieval  mind  could  desire.1 

Turning  now  to  chapter  XLVT  of  Far  from  the  Mad- 
ding Crowd,  we  come  to  these  two  paragraphs  at  the 
very  beginning:  — 

The  tower  of  Weatherbury  Church  was  a  square  erection  of 
fourteenth-century  date,  having  two  stone  gurgoyles  on  each 
of  the  four  faces  of  its  parapet.  Of  these  eight  carved  pro- 
tuberances only  two  at  this  time  continued  to  serve  the  pur- 
pose of  their  erection  —  that  of  spouting  the  water  from  the 
lead  roof  within.  One  mouth  in  each  front  had  been  closed  by 
bygone  church-wardens  as  superfluous,  and  two  others  were 

1  The  Wessex  of  Thomas  Hardy,  by  B.  C.  A.  Windle.  By  per- 
mission of  John  Lane  Company,  N.  Y. 


72    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

broken  away  and  choked  —  a  matter  not  of  much  consequence 
to  the  well-being  of  the  tower,  for  the  two  mouths  which  still 
remained  open  and  active  were  gaping  enough  to  do  all  the 
work. 

It  has  been  sometimes  argued  that  there  is  no  truer  criterion 
of  the  vitality  of  any  given  art-period  than  the  power  of  the 
master-spirits  of  that  time  in  grotesque;  and  certainly  in  the 
instance  of  Gothic  art  there  is  no  disputing  the  proposition. 
Weatherbury  tower  was  a  somewhat  early  instance  of  the  use 
of  an  ornamental  parapet  in  parish  as  distinct  from  cathedral 
churches,  and  the  gurgoyles,  which  are  the  necessary  correla- 
tives of  a  parapet,  were  exceptionally  prominent  —  of  the 
boldest  cut  that  the  hand  could  shape,  and  of  the  most  original 
design  that  a  human  brain  could  conceive.  There  was,  so  to 
speak,  that  symmetry  in  their  distortion  which  is  less  the  char- 
acteristic of  British  than  of  Continental  grotesques  of  the 
period.  All  the  eight  were  different  from  each  other.  A  be- 
holder was  convinced  that  nothing  on  earth  could  be  more 
hideous  than  those  he  saw  on  the  north  side  until  he  went 
round  to  the  south.  Of  the  two  on  this  latter  face,  only  that  at 
the  south-eastern  corner  concerns  the  story.  It  was  too  human 
to  be  called  like  a  dragon,  too  impish  to  be  like  a  man,  too 
animal  to  be  like  a  fiend,  and  not  enough  like  a  bird  to  be  called 
a  griffin.  This  horrible  stone  entity  was  fashioned  as  if  covered 
with  a  wrinkled  hide;  it  had  short,  erect  ears,  eyes  starting 
from  their  sockets,  and  its  fingers  and  hands  were  seizing  the 
corners  of  its  mouth,  which  they  thus  seemed  to  pull  open  to 
give  free  passage  to  the  water  it  vomited.  The  lower  row  of 
teeth  was  quite  washed  away,  though  the  upper  still  remained. 
Here  and  thus,  jutting  a  couple  of  feet  from  the  wall  against 
which  its  feet  rested  as  a  support,  the  creature  had  for  four 
hundred  years  laughed  at  the  surrounding  landscape,  voice- 
lessly  in  dry  weather,  and  in  wet  with  a  gurgling  and  snorting 
sound. 

These  two  paragraphs  thrown  into  the  midst  of  the 
novel  at  once  suggest  the  same  purpose  as  that  of  the 


THE  BACKGROUND  OF  THE  ACTION         73 

citation  from  The  Hardy  Country, — identification.  The 
reader  may  use  this  portion  of  the  novel  as  his  guide 
when  he  visits  the  sleepy  little  Dorset  town,  and  in  so 
far  as  the  passage  serves  the  purpose  of  making  clear 
the  exact,  veritable  scene  chosen  for  the  action  of  the 
story  —  that  is,  of  identification  —  it  may  be  called  ex- 
pository setting.  It  is  also  expository  setting  in  that, 
aside  from  representing  any  actual  architectural  curi- 
osity, it  serves  by  its  definiteness  to  objectify  the  scene 
to  the  reader's  mind.  But,  while  the  picture  may 
serve  both  of  these  purposes,  it  does  something  more. 
The  grotesque  ornament  is  an  altogether  fitting  em- 
blem of  the  ironic  fate  that  was  pursuing  Troy  and 
rendering  abortive  his  belated  attempt  at  repentance. 
And,  in  so  far  as  the  setting  intensifies  in  this  way 
the  effectiveness  of  the  action,  it  may  be  called  dra- 
matic. Where  the  one  merges  into  the  other  it  is  not 
easy  to  distinguish. 

Expository  setting  often  attends  the  chronicling  of 
historic  events.  A  good  example  may  be  found  in  the 
account  of  the  distribution  of  Harold's  forces  before  the 
battle  of  Hastings  as  chronicled  in  book  xn,  chapter  vn 
of  Bulwer-Lytton's  Harold,  the  Last  of  the  Saxon  Kings. 
In  this  case,  save  in  that  the  sentimental  reader  may 
experience  a  certain  sense  of  pathos,  arising  from  the 
loyalty  and  devotion  of  the  simple  Saxon  warriors,  the 
setting  serves  merely  to  expound  the  scene  for  a  better 
understanding  of  the  somewhat  complicated  military 
manoeuvres  to  follow. 

Probably  the  most  famous  example  of  this  sort  of 
setting  is  Victor  Hugo's  picture  of  the  field  of  Waterloo, 
in  Les  Miserables,  where  he  uses  the  letter  "A"  as  the 
ground-plan  for  the  distribution  of  his  details :  — 


74    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

Those  persons  who  wish  to  gain  a  clear  idea  of  the  battle  of 
Waterloo  have  only  to  place,  mentally,  on  the  ground,  a  capi- 
tal A.  The  left  limb  of  the  A  is  the  road  to  Nivelles,  the  right 
limb  is  the  road  to  Genappe,  the  tie  of  the  A  is  the  hollow  road 
to  Ohain  from  Braine  1'Alleud.  The  top  of  the  A  is  Mont- 
Saint-Jean,  where  Wellington  is;  the  lower  left  tip  is  Hougo- 
mont,  where  Reille  is  stationed  with  Jerome  Bonaparte;  the 
right  tip  is  the  Belle-Alliance,  where  Napoleon  was.  At  the 
centre  of  this  chord  is  the  precise  point  where  the  final  word 
of  the  battle  was  pronounced.  It  was  there  that  the  lion  has 
been  placed,  the  involuntary  symbol  of  the  supreme  heroism 
of  the  Imperial  Guard. 

The  triangle  included  in  the  top  of  the  A,  between  the  two 
limbs  and  the  tie,  is  the  plateau  of  Mont-Saint-Jean.  The  dis- 
pute over  this  plateau  constituted  the  whole  battle.  The  wings 
of  the  two  armies  extended  to  the  right  and  left  of  the  two 
roads  to  Genappe  and  Nivelles;  d'Erlon  facing  Picton,  Reille 
facing  Hill. 

Behind  the  tip  of  the  A,  behind  the  plateau  of  Mont-Saint- 
Jean,  is  the  forest  of  Soignes. 

In  these  examples  from  Bulwer-Lytton  and  Hugo  the 
purpose  is  primarily  intellectual.  Of  course,  in  each 
case,  the  account  that  follows  the  setting  gains  in  vivid- 
ness by  the  preliminary  exposition,  but  the  vividness  is 
desirable  mainly  in  order  that  the  reader  may  follow 
under  standingly  the  historical  data  of  Hastings  or  of 
Waterloo,  rather  than  that  he  may  receive  any  aesthetic 
enjoyment  from  the  picture  as  a  picture. 

In  contrast  to  the  preceding  selections,  however,  is 
the  following  passage  from  Happiness:  — 

Picture  to  yourself  a  world  that  is  still  chaos,  a  storm  of 
mountains  separated  by  narrow  passes  and  rushing  torrents; 
not  a  single  plain,  but  immense  stretches  of  granite  and  giant 
undulations  of  earth  covered  with  underbrush  or  with  lofty 
forests  of  chestnut  and  pine.  It  is  a  virgin  soil,  uncultivated, 


THE  BACKGROUND  OF  THE  ACTION        75 

desert,  although  sometimes  you  catch  sight  of  a  village,  like  a 
heap  of  rocks,  on  the  summit  of  a  mountain.  No  culture,  no 
industries,  no  art.  You  never  see  a  bit  of  wood-work  or  of 
sculptured  stone,  not  a  trace  of  rude  or  of  refined  taste,  show- 
ing that  the  ancestors  of  these  people  loved  graceful  and  beau- 
tiful things.  This  is  the  most  striking  feature  of  that  wonder- 
ful but  hard  country:  its  indifference  to  the  search  after 
beauty  which  we  call  Art. 

Italy,  where  every  palace,  full  of  masterpieces,  is  itself  a 
masterpiece,  where  marble,  wood,  bronze,  iron,  metal,  and 
stone  all  bear  witness  to  man's  genius,  where  the  smallest  relics 
that  lie  about  in  old  houses  reveal  the  divine  love  of  the  grace- 
ful, —  Italy  is  to  all  of  us  the  sacred  country  that  we  love  be- 
cause she  points  out  to  us  and  bears  witness  to  the  effort,  the 
grandeur,  the  power,  and  the  triumph  of  creative  intelligence. 

And  face  to  face  with  her  the  savage  Corsica  stands  exactly 
as  she  stood  in  her  earliest  days.  A  man  lives  there  in  his  rude 
hovel,  indifferent  to  everything  that  does  not  affect  his  own 
immediate  life  or  his  family  feuds.  He  has  all  the  vices  and 
traits  of  uncivilized  peoples;  he  is  violent,  malignant,  brutal, 
with  no  thought  of  remorse;  yet  he  is  also  hospitable,  generous, 
devoted,  simple,  opening  his  door  to  passers-by  and  offering 
the  loyalty  of  a  friend  at  the  least  sign  of  kindness. 

The  purpose  of  this  carefully  elaborated  description 
is  certainly  not  to  localize  the  scene  of  the  narrative  for 
any  purpose  of  identification.  Rather  it  is  to  heighten 
the  effect  of  the  romance  of  Suzanne  de  Sirmont's  life, 
to  emphasize  the  sufficiency  of  her  love  amid  the  hard- 
ships of  poverty  and  exile.  The  harsh,  rude  background 
of  Corsica  intensifies  the  effect  of  the  harsh,  rude  peasant 
life.  Here  the  effect  of  the  setting  is  clearly  aesthetic, 
rather  than  merely  expository. 

The  stories  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe  are  familiar  examples 
of  the  power  that  comes  from  dramatic  setting.  In  them 
the  sense  of  horror,  suspense,  or  other  emotional  appeal 


76    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

is  immensely  deepened  by  the  description  of  the  sur- 
roundings that  attend  the  action.  In  Richard  Yea-and- 
Nay  Hewlett  makes  memorable  use  of  dramatic  setting 
in  the  chapter  entitled  "The  Tower  of  Flies,"  to  inten- 
sify the  effect  of  a  scene  in  which  two  cowardly  conspir- 
ators meet  to  plan  the  assassination  of  the  King. 

An  intensification  of  the  effect  of  dramatic  setting  is 
observed  when  the  character  of  the  background  —  while 
of  course  remaining  constant  —  seemingly  changes  in 
accord  with  the  action  projected  against  it.  Tess  of  the 
D'Urbervilles  furnishes  illustration  of  the  matter  in  point. 
On  the  night  following  their  marriage,  Tess  and  Angel 
Clare  sit  by  the  fireside  in  the  old  D'Urberville  manor, 
and  Tess  nerves  herself  to  confess  to  her  husband  the 
story  of  her  tragic  past :  — 

A  steady  crimson  glare  from  the  now  flameless  embers 
painted  the  sides  and  back  of  the  fireplace  with  its  color,  and 
the  well-polished  andirons,  and  the  old  brass  tongs  that  would 
not  meet.  The  underside  of  the  mantel-shelf  was  flushed  with 
the  unwavering  blood-colored  light,  and  the  legs  of  the  table 
nearest  the  fire.  Tess's  face  and  neck  reflected  the  same 
warmth;  which  each  diamond  turned  into  an  Aldebaran  or  a 
Sirius  —  a  constellation  of  white,  red,  and  green  flashes,  that  in- 
terchanged their  hues  with  her  every  pulsation.  .  .  .  The  ashes 
under  the  grate  were  lit  by  the  fire  vertically,  like  a  torrid 
waste.  Her  imagination  suddenly  beheld  a  Last  Day  luridness 
in  this  red-coaled  glow.  It  still  fell  0n  his  face  and  hand,  and 
on  hers,  peering  into  the  loose  hair  about  her  brow,  and  firing 
the  delicate  skin  underneath.  A  large  shadow  of  her  shape 
rose  upon  the  wall  and  ceiling.  She  bent  forward,  at  which 
each  diamond  on  her  neck  gave  a  sinister  wink  like  a  toad's, 
and  pressing  her  forehead  against  his  temple  she  entered  on  the 
story  of  her  acquaintance  with  Alec  D'Urberville  and  its 
results.1 

1  Hardy's  Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles.  Copyright,  1891,  1892,  1893  by 
Harper  and  Brothers. 


THE  BACKGROUND  OF  THE  ACTION   .77 

In  the  luridness  of  this  entire  scene,  with  its  pulsating 
colors,  flickering  shadows  and  spectral  half-lights,  the 
dramatic  values  of  the  situation  are  vastly  increased; 
and,  more  than  that,  in  some  vague,  indefinite  way,  the 
reader  feels  in  advance  the  utter  futility  of  Tess's  con- 
fession. But  with  the  last  words  of  her  narrative,  a 
change  seems  to  come  over  the  picture,  which,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  prosaic  fact,  of  course  remains  unchanged;  and 
now,  instead  of  the  spectral,  portentous  effect,  the  same 
background  presents  an  impish,  unresponsive  face  to 
the  girl's  appeal  and  cry  for  love :  — 

The  complexion  even  of  external  things  suffered  transmuta- 
tion as  her  announcement  progressed.  The  fire  in  the  grate 
grew  impish  —  demoniacally  funny,  as  if  it  did  not  care  in  the 
least  about  her  strait.  The  fender  grinned  idly,  as  if  it,  too,  did 
not  care.  The  light  from  the  water-bottle  was  merely  engaged 
in  a  chromatic  problem.  All  material  objects  around  an- 
nounced their  irresponsibility  with  terrible  iteration.  And  yet 
nothing  had  changed  since  the  moments  when  he  had  been  kiss- 
ing her;  or  rather,  nothing  in  the  substance  of  things.1 

In  scenes  such  as  these  the  writer  simply  avails  him- 
self of  a  phenomenon  that  is  common  enough :  the  seem- 
ing responsiveness  of  nature  to  one's  mood, of  the  mo- 
ment; the  tendency  to  read  into  the  sunlight  or  the 
shadow  a  reflection  of  the  joy  or  of  the  sadness  within. 
And  just  as  in  the  actual  experiences  of  life  there  is  a 
certain  intensifying  of  the  emotion  by  this  process  of 
personification,  so  when  the  portraiture  of  life  is  trans- 
ferred to  written  discourse  the  device  of  dramatic  set- 
ting energizes  the  emotional  possibilities  of  the  account. 

But  the  aesthetic  value  of  setting  often  arises  from  the 
very  unlikeness  between  the  background  and  the  action; 

1  Hardy's  less  of  the  D'Urbervilles.  Copyright,  1891, 1892, 1893  by 
Harper  and  Brothers. 


78    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

from  contrast  rather  than  from  similarity.  Happiness 
affords  illustration  of  this  as  well  as  of  the  preceding 
principle  of  harmony.  The  story  of  faithfulness  in  love 
amid  the  hardships  of  primeval  surroundings  is  projected 
against  the  background  of  a  fashionable  gathering  at  a 
seaside  villa  and  a  conventional,  dilettante  discussion  of 
love,  wherein  worldly  men  and  shallow  women  analyze, 
extemporize  definitions,  and  draw  artificial  distinctions 
regarding  fidelity;  while  before  them 

Corsica  was  sinking  into  the  night,  slowly  disappearing  into 
the  sea,  blotting  out  her  great  shadow,  that  had  appeared  as  if 
to  relate  in  person  the  story  of  the  two  humble  lovers  sheltered 
on  her  coast. 

Stevenson's  Markheim  offers  abundant  study  of  ef- 
fects in  setting,  and  among  them  none  is  more  dynamic 
than  the  contrast  between  the  chaos  and  riot  in  the  mur- 
derer's mind  and  the  absolute  silence  of  the  deserted 
house  where  crime  has  been  committed  —  a  contrast 
made  doubly  effective  by  the  maddening  ticking  of  the 
innumerable  clocks  and  the  successive  striking  of  the 
hour  in  tones  varying  from  the  deep  cathedral  chime  to 
the  treble  notes  of  the  prelude  of  a  waltz.  All  these 
emphatic  reminders  of  silence  throw  into  startling  relief 
the  mental  condition  of  the  murderer,  bordering,  as  he 
is,  on  madness. 

History,  as  well  as  fiction,  makes  use  of  the  same 
device,  thus  bringing  out  with  added  intensity  the 
picturesqueness,  the  significance,  the  tragedy  of  actual 
occurrence.  Parkman's  story  of  Braddock's  defeat  util- 
izes dramatic  setting  for  this  purpose  by  throwing  into 
striking  contrast  (1)  the  orderly  array  of  the  English 
ranks  as,  in  martial  order,  they  advanced  into  the  silent 
depths  of  the  primeval  American  forest  and  (2)  the  sub- 
sequent scene  of  disorder,  carnage,  and  havoc. 


THE  BACKGROUND  OF  THE  ACTION        79 

It  was  past  noon  of  a  day  brightened  with  the  clear  sunlight 
of  an  American  midsummer,  when  the  forces  of  Braddock 
began,  for  a  second  time,  to  cross  the  Monongahela,  at  the 
fording-place,  which  to  this  day  bears  the  name  of  their  ill- 
fated  leader.  The  scarlet  columns  of  the  British  regulars,  com- 
plete in  martial  appointment,  the  rude  backwoodsmen  with 
shouldered  rifles,  the  trains  of  artillery  and  the  white-topped 
wagons,  moved  on  in  long  procession  through  the  shallow  cur- 
rent, and  slowly  mounted  the  opposing  bank. 

„  .  .  With  steady  and  well-ordered  march,  the  troops  ad- 
vanced into  the  great  labyrinth  of  woods  which  shadowed  the 
eastern  borders  of  the  river.  Rank  after  rank  vanished  from 
sight.  The  forest  swallowed  them  up,  and  the  silence  of  the 
wilderness  sank  down  once  more  on  the  shores  and  waters  of 
the  Monongahela.1 

Then  follow  the  surprise  by  the  French  and  Indians 
concealed  behind  the  trees  and  bushes  of  the  densely 
wooded  ravines;  the  discordant  cries  of  the  men  and  the 
roar  of  the  murderous  volleys;  the  disordered  grena- 
diers insane  with  terror,  panic-stricken,  helpless,  hud- 
dled together  in  the  face  of  an  invisible  enemy ;  the  gen- 
eral, storming  and  shouting,  and  finally  borne  from  the 
field  mortally  wounded;  Washington  alone  cool  and  un- 
daunted, at  the  head  of  his  Virginia  frontiersmen,  vainly 
striving  to  restore  order;  and,  finally,  the  tumultuous 
flight  across  the  river.  Much  of  the  dramatic  vigor  of 
this  narrative  is  due  to  the  effective  contrast  thus  pre- 
sented in  the  setting. 

Sometimes  dramatic  setting  is  more  than  mere  back- 
ground for  the  action.  Men  not  only  live  amid  their  sur- 
roundings, but  from  the  nature  of  their  surroundings 

1  From  The  Conspiracy  of  Pontiac.  Copyright,  1870,  by  Francis 
Parkman.  Copyright,  1898,  by  Grace  P.  Coffin  and  Katherine  S. 
Coolidge. 


80    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

their  characters  often  take  shape.  To  revert  for  illus- 
tration to  the  Parable  of  the  Prodigal  Son,  one  may 
argue  that  the  experiences  of  the  "far  country,"  separ- 
ation from  kindred  and  friends,  together  with  the  chas- 
tening effects  of  adverse  fortune,  combined  to  produce 
the  spirit  that  distinguished  the  humble  penitent  from 
the  pleasure-loving  prodigal.  The  implied  setting  of  this 
story  is  really  more  than  mere  background;  it  is  a  factor  in 
the  two  other  elements,  character  and  action.  Setting  of 
this  sort,  which  not  only  furnishes  background  but  enters 
into  and  moulds  character  and  action,  is  known  by  the 
scientific  term  "environment."  The  modern  writer  ex- 
emplifies the  theory  that  environment  modifies  life,  and 
he  presents  setting  as  an  integral  part  of  his  work.  In 
contemporary  fiction,  the  novels  of  Zola  are  notable 
illustrations  of  the  "deterministic"  theory  —  that  char- 
acter is  the  product  of  two  factors,  heredity  and  environ- 
ment. Thomas  Hardy  is  the  great  exponent  among 
English  writers.  In  Tess,  for  example,  almost  every  in- 
stance of  elaborated  descriptive  detail  serves  the  deeper 
purpose  of  determining  the  characters  and  the  events 
that  develop  against  the  given  background.  The  warm, 
sensuous  atmosphere  of  Talbothays  and  the  bleak  chill 
and  leaden  drab  of  Flintcombe-Ash  are  not  mere  acci- 
dental circumstances  attending  certain  details  in  Tess's 
career;  rather  they  are  actual  agents  entering  into  and 
moulding  her  life's  tragedy. 

Hawthorne,  with  his  romantic  imagination  and  poetic 
temperament,  was  prone  to  use  this  device  in  intensify- 
ing his  narrative.  In  The  Great  Stone  Face  he  gives  a 
brilliant  example  of  this  type  of  dramatic  setting:  — 

The  Great  Stone  Face  was  a  work  of  Nature  in  her  mood  of 
majestic  playfulness,  formed  on  the  perpendicular  side  of  a 


THE  BACKGROUND  OF  THE  ACTION        81 

mountain  by  some  immense  rocks,  which  had  been  thrown  to- 
gether in  such  a  position  as,  when  viewed  at  a  proper  distance, 
precisely  to  resemble  the  features  of  the  human  countenance. 
It  seemed  as  if  an  enormous  giant,  or  a  Titan,  had  sculptured 
his  own  likeness  on  the  precipice.  There  was  the  broad  arch  of 
the  forehead,  a  hundred  feet  in  height;  the  nose,  with  its  long 
bridge;  and  the  vast  lips,  which,  if  they  could  have  spoken, 
would  have  rolled  their  thunder  accents  from  one  end  of  the 
valley  to  the  other.  True  it  is,  that  if  the  spectator  approached 
too  near,  he  lost  the  outline  of  the  gigantic  visage,  and  could 
discern  only  a  heap  of  ponderous  and  gigantic  rocks,  piled  in 
chaotic  ruin  one  upon  another.  Retracing  his  steps,  however, 
the  wondrous  features  would  again  be  seen ;  and  the  farther  he 
withdrew  from  them,  the  more  like  a  human  face,  with  all  its 
original  divinity  intact,  did  they  appear;  until,  as  it  grew  dim 
in  the  distance,  with  the  clouds  and  glorified  vapor  of  the 
mountains  clustering  about  it,  the  Great  Stone  Face  seemed 
positively  to  be  alive. 

Yet,  mere  mass  of  rock  as  it  was,  the  contemplation  of 
this  wondrous  natural  phenomenon  possessed  an  in- 
spirational power  over  all  those  who  lived  within  the 
range  of  its  benignant  aspect.  Among  these  was  Ernest, 
who  with  loving  heart  and  helpful  hand  grew  up  under 
the  shadow  of  the  Great  Stone  Face. 

From  a  happy  yet  often  pensive  child,  he  grew  up  to  be  a 
mild,  quiet,  unobtrusive  boy,  and  sun-browned  with  labor  in 
the  fields,  but  with  more  intelligence  brightening  his  aspect 
than  is  seen  in  many  lads"  who  have  been  taught  at  famous 
schools.  Yet  Ernest  had  had  no  teacher,  save  only  that  the 
Great  Stone  Face  became  one  to  him.  When  the  toil  of  the  day 
was  over,  he  would  gaze  at  it  for  hours,  until  he  began  to  imag- 
ine that  those  vast  features  recognized  him,  and  gave  him  a 
smile  of  kindness  and  encouragement,  responsive  to  his  own 
look  of  veneration. 


82    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

And  thus,  ever  growing  in  devotion  to  his  ideal,  the 
boy  became  a  man  and  continued  in  the  valley  to  serve 
his  fellows.  One  day,  Ernest,  now  a  preacher  of  the 
Word,  was  addressing  the  people  and  among  his  hearers 
was  a  poet,  gifted  with  the  power  of  vision. 

The  poet,  as  he  listened,  felt  that  the  being  and  character 
of  Ernest  were  a  nobler  strain  of  poetry  than  he  had  ever  writ- 
ten. His  eyes  glistening  with  tears,  he  gazed  reverentially  at 
the  venerable  man;  and  said  within  himself  that  never  was 
there  an  aspect  so  worthy  of  a  prophet  and  a  sage  as  that  mild, 
sweet,  thoughtful  countenance,  with  the  glory  of  white  hair 
diffused  about  it.  At  a  distance,  but  distinctly  to  be  seen,  high 
up  in  the  golden  light  of  the  setting  sun,  appeared  the  Great 
Stone  Face,  with  hoary  mists  around  it,  like  the  white  hairs 
around  the  brow  of  Ernest.  Its  look  of  grand  beneficence 
seemed  to  embrace  the  world. 

And  in  the  venerable  speaker,  who  since  boyhood  had 
been  inspired  by  the  constant  contemplation  of  the  Great 
Stone  Face,  the  poet  recognized  the  incarnation  of  all 
that  those  mighty  features  had  prefigured. 

In  the  preceding  paragraphs  we  have  the  principal 
devices  whereby  background  is  made  effective:  (1)  set- 
ting that  is  in  harmony  with  the  accompanying  action; 
(2)  setting  that  presents  change  correspondent  to  ac- 
companying change  in  the  action;  (3)  setting  that  is  in 
contrast  to  the  action;  (4)  setting  that  modifies  action 
or  character.  We  now  pass  to  the  consideration  of  cer- 
tain well  recognized  phases  of  setting,  known  respect- 
ively as  (1)  local  color,  (2)  atmosphere,  and  (3)  sym- 
bolic setting. 

Local  Color 

Every  well-defined  period  of  time,  every  distinct 
place,  has  its  own  character,  which  we  may  term  its 


THE  BACKGROUND  OF  THE  ACTION        83 

"color,"  its  "tone."  The  writerwhocan  catch  the  pecul- 
iar spirit  of  a  generation,  the  distinctive  atmosphere  of  a 
locality,  gains  much  in  the  convincingness  of  his  work.  The 
position  that  Westward  Ho!  has  gained  in  English  historic 
fiction  is  to  be  attributed  in  large  degree  to  Kingsley's 
success  in  catching  the  very  spirit  of  Elizabethan  days 
when,  her  ports  crowded  with  ships  returning  from  un- 
known countries  and  laden  with  strange  freight  of  every 
description,  her  streets  filled  with  swaggering  dare- 
devils fresh  from  every  conceivable  adventure,  England 
was  aglow  with  life  and  a  new  world  was  opening  at  her 
doors.  On  the  other  hand,  George  Eliot's  inability  to  re- 
produce the  Florence  of  the  fifteenth  century  underlies 
much  of  the  adverse  criticism  that  has  been  passed  upon 
Romola  as  an  example  of  unsuccessful  historic  fiction. 
In  so  far  as  veritable  history  is  narrative  rather  than 
expository, — that  is,  in  so  far  as  history  is  a  chronicle  of 
events  rather  than  an  attempt  to  extract  from  events 
a  philosophy  of  historical  evolution  or  to  establish  sci- 
entific generalizations,  —  to  that  extent  history,  like 
fiction,  may  make  use  of  local  color.  It  will  strive  to 
render  as  graphic  as  possible  the  time  and  the  place  of 
past  events.  This  function  of  the  narrator  Macau  lay 
has  set  forth  in  his  essay  on  Hallam's  Constitutional 
History  of  England.  It  is, 

to  make  the  past  present,  to  bring  the  distant  near,  to  place 
us  in  the  society  of  a  great  man  or  on  the  eminence  which  over- 
looks the  field  of  a  mighty  battle,  to  invest  with  the  reality  of 
human  flesh  and  blood  beings  whom  we  are  too  much  inclined 
to  consider  as  personified  qualities  in  an  allegory,  to  call  up  our 
ancestors  before  us  with  all  their  peculiarities  of  language, 
manners,  and  garb,  to  show  us  over  their  houses,  to  seat  us  at 
their  tables,  to  rummage  their  old-fashioned  wardrobes,  to 
explain  the  uses  of  their  ponderous  furniture. 


84    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

Although,  as  Macaulay  goes  on  to  say,  the  dramatic 
presentation  thus  indicated  has,  in  large  degree,  been  ap- 
propriated by  the  historic  novelist,  yet  the  historian  has 
not  neglected  to  profit  by  the  advantages  that  come 
from  effective  portrayal  of  the  time-spirit  and  of  local 
color.  Gibbon,  Green,  Froude,  Parkman,  all  have  shown 
what  are  the  artistic  possibilities  of  background.  Yet 
from  the  fact  already  noted,  that  historic  literature  par- 
takes so  largely  of  the  expository  arid  intellectual  nature, 
the  best  examples  of  local  color  are  to  be  found  else- 
where, particularly  in  the  novel  or  the  short  story,  where 
dramatic  effect,  rather  than  truth,  is  sought. 

Excellent  illustration  of  effectiveness  in  local  color  is 
to  be  found  in  the  stories  of  Mary  E.  Wilkins  Freeman 
and  Sarah  Orne  Jewett,  who  have  caught  the  peculiar 
spirit  that  differentiates  New  England  from  all  other 
parts  of  this  country.  Similarly  James  Lane  Allen  has 
interpreted  the  spirit  of  Kentucky,  George  W.  Cable 
that  of  the  extreme  South,  George  Eliot  that  of  the  Eng- 
lish Midlands,  and  Thomas  Hardy  that  of  Dorsetshire. 
In  the  work  of  these  writers  setting  is  essential.  It  would 
amount  to  annihilation  were  background  to  be  elimi- 
nated from  such  narratives  as  A  New  England  Nun, 
The  Choir  Invisible,  Adam  Bede,  or  The  Return  of  the  Na- 
tive. 

Local  color  is  more  than  the  mere  enumeration  of 
characteristics.  The  dusty  roadsides,  the  tapering 
spruces,  the  fifing  of  hermit  thrushes,  and  the  pungent 
odor  of  pine  needles  are  not  enough  to  constitute  a  pic- 
ture of  the  Maine  woods.  All  these  are  nothing  more  than 
externals.  In  such  a  study  of  locality,  for  example,  as 
Miss  Jewett 's  Country  of  the  Pointed  Firs  there  is  the 
keen  appreciation  of  everything,  animate  and  inani- 
mate, that  gives  personality  to  the  region. 


THE  BACKGROUND  OF  THE  ACTION        85 

There  was  something  about  the  coast  town  of  Dunnet  that 
made  it  seem  more  attractive  than  other  maritime  villages  of 
eastern  Maine.  Perhaps  it  was  the  simple  fact  of  acquaintance 
with  that  neighborhood  which  made  it  so  attaching,  and  gave 
such  interest  to  the  rocky  shore  and  dark  woods,  and  the  few 
houses  which  seemed  to  be  securely  wedged  and  tree-nailed  in 
among  the  ledges  by  the  landing.  These  houses  made  the  most 
of  their  seaward  view,  and  there  was  a  gayety  and  determined 
floweriness  in  their  bits  of  gardenrground;  the  small-paned  high 
windows  in  the  peaks  of  their  steep  gables  were  like  knowing 
eyes  that  watched  the  harbor  and  the  far  sea-line  beyond,  or 
looked  northward  all  along  the  shore  and  its  background  of 
spruces  and  balsam  firs.  When  one  really  knows  a  village  like 
this  and  its  surroundings,  it  is  like  becoming  acquainted  with 
a  single  person.  The  process  of  falling  in  love  at  first  sight 
is  as  final  as  it  is  swift  in  such  a  case,  but  the  growth  of  true 
friendship  may  be  a  life-long  affair.1 

This  poetic  insight,  this  peculiar  sensing  of  the  human 
element  in  nature,  is  the  secret  of  true  local  color.  It 
demands  appreciation  of  the  inherent  unity  that  com- 
bines all  constituent  parts  into  one  individual  entity, 
whether  we  call  it  color,  tone,  personality,  or  spirit. 

When  the  very  soul  of  a  locality  is  caught,  it  may  of 
course  be  utilized  in  any  of  the  various  ways  already  in- 
dicated as  the  methods  of  setting.  It  may  render  effective 
the  action  by  its  very  fitness  and  harmony;  or  by  con- 
trast it  may  throw  out  into  relief  events  wholly  uncon- 
genial amidst  such  setting.  But  whatever  be  the  particu- 
lar method  by  which  the  local  color  is  utilized,  it  brings 
to  the  narrative  unity  of  impression  and  effectiveness  of 
presentation. 

Atmosphere 

Closely  allied  to  "local  color"  is  "atmosphere."  The 
atmosphere  of  a  narrative  may  be  defined  as  the  product 

1  Sarah  One  Jewett's  The  Country  of  the  Pointed  Firs.  Published 
by  Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 


86    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

of  setting  and  action  combined.  It  is  found  when  the 
two  elements  are  so  conjoined  that  one  distinct  charac- 
ter pervades  the  whole.  There  is  atmosphere,  for  exam- 
ple, in  the  opening  scene  of  Macbeth,  where  the  tragic 
weirdness  of  witches,  heath,  storm,  and  night  so  com- 
bine with  inordinate  passion  and  bloody  deeds  as  to 
create  a  general,  all-pervading  note  of  tragedy.  The  same 
thing  is  illustrated  in  Irving's  Rip  Van  Winkle,  of  which 
the  opening  paragraph  reads :  — 

Whoever  has  made  a  voyage  up  the  Hudson  must  remember 
the  Kaatskill  mountains.  They  are  a  dismembered  branch  of 
the  great  Appalachian  family,  and  are  seen  away  to  the  west  of 
the  river,  swelling  up  to  a  noble  height,  and  lording  it  over  the 
surrounding  country.  Every  change  of  season,  every  change  of 
weather,  indeed,  every  hour  of  the  day,  produces  some  change 
in  the  magical  hues  and  shapes  of  these  mountains,  and  they 
are  regarded  by  all  the  good  wives,  far  and  near,  as  perfect 
barometers.  When  the  weather  is  fair  and  settled,  they  are 
clothed  in  blue  and  purple,  and  print  their  bold  outlines  on  the 
clear  evening  sky;  but  sometimes,  when  the  rest  of  the  land- 
scape is  cloudless,  they  will  gather  a  hood  of  gray  vapors  about 
their  summits,  which,  in  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  will 
glow  and  light  up  like  a  crown  of  glory. 

The  magical  hues  and  shapes  of  the  Kaatskills,  half 
revealed,  half  outlined  in  the  gray  vapors  of  the  evening 
sun,  throwing  their  long  shadows  across  the  misty  val- 
leys, are  altogether  in  keeping  with  the  mystical  legend 
of  Rip's  long  slumber  and  of  his  adventure  with  the 
spectral  crew  of  the  Half-Moon.  Excellent  instances  of 
atmosphere  are  also  to  be  found  in  the  tales  of  Poe, 
wherein  gloom  and  horror  are  projected  against  a  back- 
ground of  sombreness  and  desolation. 

Like  local  color,  atmosphere  demands  primarily  a 
sense  of  unity,  but  there  is  a  difference.  In  seeking  at- 


THE  BACKGROUND  OF  THE  ACTION        87 

mosphere  the  artist  allows  no  dissonance  in  his  details. 
Everything  must  harmonize  action  and  setting.  His 
task  is  largely  one  of  elimination.  On  the  other  hand,  in 
seeking  for  local  color  the  writer  excludes  nothing ; 
rather,  he  courts  multiplicity  of  detail  and  seeks  the 
ultimate  combination  that  is  the  incarnation  of  them  all. 

Symbolic  Setting 

The  third  variety  of  setting,  the  symbolic,  is,  as  sug- 
gested by  the  name,  confined  in  great  degree  to  allegori- 
cal narrative.  While,  like  all  setting,  it  brings  out  with 
increased  power  the  details  of  the  action,  at  the  same 
time  it  possesses  a  value  of  its  own.  In  The  Great  Stone 
Face,  for  example,  the  titanic  features  sculptured  on  the 
precipice  are  more  than  a  mere  effective  natural  setting 
for  the  development  of  Ernest's  simple  personality.  The 
reader  feels  that  the  face  symbolizes  something  of  the 
ideal,  of  the  spiritual,  the  constant  contemplation  of 
which  inspires  the/true  man  to  the  highest  attainment. 
*In  A  Tale  of  Tnoo  Cities  Dickens  makes  effective  use 
of  this  phase  of  setting  in  the  following  passage :  — 

•  • 

The  night  was  so  very  sultry,  that  although  they  sat  with 
doors  and  windows  open,  they  were  overpowered  by  heat. 
When  the  tea-table  was  done  with,  they  all  moved  to  one  of 
the  windows,  and  looked  out  into  the  heavy  twilight.  Lucie 
sat  by  her  father;  Darnay  sat  beside  her;  Carton  leaned  against 
a  window.  The  curtains  were  long  and  white,  and  some  of  the 
thunder  gusts  that  whirled  into  the  corner  caught  them  up  to 
the  ceiling,  and  waved  them  like  spectral  wings. 

"The  raindrops  are  still  falling,  large,  heavy,  and  few,"  said 
Doctor  Manette.  "It  comes  slowly." 

"It  comes  surely,"  said  Carton. 

They  spoke  Tow,  as  people  watching  and  waiting  mostly  do; 


88    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

as  people  in  a  dark  room,  watching  and  waiting  for  the  Light- 
ning, always  do. 

There  was  a  great  hurry  in  the  streets  of  people  speeding 
away  to  get  shelter  before  the  storm  broke;  the  wonderful 
corner  for  echoes  resounded  with  the  echoes  of  footsteps  com- 
ing and  going,  yet  not  a  footstep  was  there. 

"A  multitude  of  people,  and  yet  a  solitude !"  said  Darnay, 
when  they  had  listened  for  a  while. 

"Is  it  not  impressive,  Mr.  Darnay?"  asked  Lucie.  "Some- 
times I  have  sat  here  of  an  evening,  until  I  have  fancied  —  but 
even  the  shade  of  a  foolish  fancy  makes  me  shudder  to-night, 
when  all  is  so  black  and  solemn  — " 

"Let  us  shudder  too.  We  may  know  what  it  is?" 

"It  will  seem  nothing  to  you.  Such  whims  are  only  impress- 
ive as  we  originate  them,  I  think;  they  are  not  to  be  communi- 
cated. I  have  sometimes  sat  alone  here  of  an  evening  listening, 
until  I  have  made  the  echoes  out  to  be  the  echoes  of  all  the 
footsteps  that  are  coming  by  and  by  into  our  lives." 

"  There  is  a  great  crowd  coming  one  day  into  our  lives,  if 
that  be  so,"  Sydney  Carton  struck  in,  in  his  moody  way. 

The  footsteps  were  incessant,  and  the  hurry  of  them  became 
more  and  more  rapid.  The  corner  echoed  and  re-echoed  with 
the  tread  of  feet;  some,  as  it  seemed,  under  the  windows;  some, 
as  it  seemed,  in  the  room;  some  coming,  some  going,  some 
breaking  off,  some  stopping  altogether;  all  in  the  distant 
streets,  and  not  one  within  sight. 

"Are  all  these  footsteps  destined  to  come  to  all  of  us,  Miss 
Manette,  or  are  we  to  divide  them  among  us?" 

"I  don't  know,  Mr.  Darnay;  I  told  you  it  was  a  foolish  fancy, 
but  you  asked  for  it.  When  I  have  yielded  myself  to  it,  I  have 
been  alone,  and  then  I  have  imagined  them  the  footsteps  of 
the  people  who  are  to  come  into  my  life,  and  my  father's." 

"I  take  them  into  mine ! "  said  Carton.  " 7  ask  no  questions 
and  make  no  stipulations.  There  is  a  great  crowd  bearing 
down  upon  us,  Miss  Manette,  and  I  see  them !  —  by  the 
Lightning."  He  added  the  last  words,  after  there  had  been  a 
vivid  flash  which  had  shown  him  lounging  in  the  window. 


THE  BACKGROUND  OF  THE  ACTION        89 

"And  I  hear  them!"  he  added  again,  after  a  peal  of  thun- 
der. "Here  they  come,  fast,  fierce,  and  furious!" 

It  was  the  rush  and  roar  of  rain  that  he  typified,  and  it 
stopped  him,  for  no  voice  could  be  heard  in  it.  A  memorable 
storm  of  thunder  and  lightning  broke  with  that  sweep  of  water, 
and  there  was  not  a  moment's  interval  in  crash,  and  fire,  and 
rain,  until  after  the  moon  rose  at  midnight. 

The  setting  that  runs  through  this  episode  of  the  thun- 
der storm  is  not  primarily  for  the  more  effective  projec- 
tion of  the  action,  but,  as  in  Hawthorne's,  story  of 
Ernest,  it  is  written  with  view  to  the  implication.  The 
scene  is  allegorical,  and  foreshadows  the  tragic  events 
destined  to  appear  in  the  drama  of  Lucie  and  her  father. 
The  hurrying  footsteps,  Carton's  thoughtless  words,  the 
onward  rush  and  roar  of  the  approaching  storm  unmis- 
takably represent  the  many  people  that  are  to  enter 
their  lives,  the  sacrifice  that  Carton  is  to  make  for  Lucie 
without  stipulating  conditions,  the  darkness  that  is  to 
settle  over  them  all  as  the  Revolution  closes  in.  The 
spectral  waving  of  the  curtains,  the  crashing  of  the  thun- 
der, the  mysterious  footsteps  ever  coming  and  ever  going 
but  never  passing,  —  all  these  details  contribute  to  the 
fatefulness  of  the  scene  and  foretell  something  in  store. 

Symbolic  setting  is  essentially  unlike  local  color, 
indeed  unlike  almost  all  other  dramatic  setting,  in  that 
while  in  one  sense  it  is  background,  it  is,  in  fact,  part  of 
the  action.  It  is  akin  to  atmosphere  rather  than  to  local 
color,  but  it  is  more  even  than  atmosphere.  In  Haw- 
thorne's story  of  Ernest  the  setting,  it  is  true,  is  pecul- 
iarly in  harmony  with  Ernest's  spiritual  development, 
but  one  who  should  see  in  the  setting  nothing  more  than 
this  would  lose  much  of  what  the  legend  is  intended  to 
convey.  Similarly,  the  passage  from  Dickens  would  lose 
much,  if  not  all,  of  its  significance  were  the  reader  to 


90    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

view  it  as  nothing  more  than  a  rather  picturesque  piece 
of  descriptive  writing. 

It  is  evident,  then,  that  setting  is  auxiliary  to  action, 
to  the  ordering  of  details  that  constitute  the  back- 
bone of  the  narrative.  The  only  exception  would  seem  to 
be  in  those  cases  where  the  environment  demands  a  cer- 
tain harmonious  and  concurrent  action.  Yet  even  here 
the  story  is  ultimately  the  thing. 

•     Undue  Elaboration  of  Setting 

Description,  apart  and  unsubordinated,  is  recognized 
as  an  entirely  legitimate  form  of  prose  discourse,  but  it 
cannot  be  termed  background  unless  upon  it  something 
is  enacted.  Descriptive  writing  cast  into  the  body  of  a 
narrative  may  be  defended  in  proportion  as  it  is  an  in- 
herent part  of  the  whole  composition.  When  it  begins  to 
take  form  as  an  independent  entity,  the  composition  as  a 
narrative  whole  at  once  begins  to  suffer  from  lack  of 
unity,  coherence,  and  emphasis.  Narrative  unity  is  vio- 
lated because  there  is  no  longer  essential  consonance  be- 
tween the  action — without  which  there  can  be  no  narra- 
tion—  and  the  background  of  the  action;  the  two  do  not 
coalesce.  Narrative  coherence  suffers  because  the  gen- 
eral current  of  events  is  disturbed  by  the  interpolation 
of  what  seems  foreign  matter.  And  narrative  emphasis 
is  lost  because,  through  want  of  true  proportion,  the 
subordinate  is  advanced  into  equal  prominence  with 
that  which  is  not  its  rhetorical  equal. 

Undue  elaboration  of  setting  is  likely  to  manifest 
itself  in  one  of  two  ways:  (a)  the  writer  overcrowds  his 
setting  with  unnecessary  details;  or  (b)  he  indulges  in 
descriptive  dissipation  without  regard  to  the  main  func- 
tion of  the  composition. 


THE  BACKGROUND  OF  THE  ACTION        91 

A  tendency  of  young  writers  —  and  indeed  of  older 
writers  not  possessed  of  well-developed  power  of  selec- 
tion —  is  to  overcrowd  the  scene  with  details  that  are 
trivial  or  that  leave  too  little  to  the  reader's  imagination. 
Arlo  Bates  in  his  Talks  on  Writing  English  illus- 
trates the  first  of  these  tendencies  in  the  following 
passage :  — 

To  force  the  accidental  on  the  reader  is  to  destroy  the 
sense  of  reality ,which  is  the  prime  object  of  the  literary  artist. 
As  an  illustration  we  may  take  this  passage  from  Thack- 
eray:— 

"  If  your  Majesty  will  please  to  enter  the  next  apartment," 
says  Esmond,  preserving  his  grave  tone,  "I  have  some  papers 
there  which  I  would  gladly  submit  to  you,  and  by  your  permis- 
sion, I  will  lead  the  way;"  and  taking  the  taper  up,  and  back- 
ing before  the  Prince  with  very  great  ceremony,  Mr.  Esmond 
passed  in  to  the  little  Chaplain's  room,  through  which  we  had 
just  entered  into  the  house.  "Please  to  set  a  chair  for  his 
Majesty,  Frank,"  says  the  Colonel  to  his  companion,  who 
wondered  much  at  this  scene,  and  was  as  much  puzzled  by  it  as 
the  other  actor  in  it.  Then  going  to  the  crypt  over  the  mantel- 
piece, the  Colonel  opened  it,  and  drew  thence  the  papers 
which  had  so  long  lain  there.  —  The  History  of  Henry  Esmond. 

This  might  have  been  written,  with  more  literal  exact- 
ness :  — 

"If  your  Majesty  will  please  to  enter  the  next  apartment," 
says  Esmond,  preserving  his  grave  tone,  resting  his  hand  on 
the  back  of  a  chair,  and  bowing  as  he  spoke,  "I  have  some 
papers  there  which  I  would  gladly  submit  to  you;  and  by  your 
permission  I  will  lead  the  way."  He  stepped  forward  a  couple 
of  paces.  He  took  up  the  taper,  bowing  again,  and  backed 
before  the  Prince  with  great  ceremony  toward  the  door  of  the 
little  Chaplain's  room,  through  which  we  had  just  entered  the 
house.  He  glanced  under  his  arm  as  he  bowed  to  see  the 
threshold,  lest  he  should  stumble  and  destroy  the  dignity  of  his 


92    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

march.  The  Prince  followed  slowly,  regarding  the  other  with 
a  look  at  once  of  rage  and  stupefaction.  His  coat,  which  he  had 
put  on  unassisted,  was  all  awry,  his  wig  tumbled,  and  his  rib- 
bons rumpled.  He  rested  his  hand  upon  the  hilt  of  a  dagger 
which  he  wore  at  his  belt,  and  he  carried  his  head  with  a  man- 
ner almost  openly  defiant.  Behind  him  came  Frank,  most  as- 
tonished of  all,  but  following  the  lead  which  the  Colonel  gave. 
His  steps  were  longer  than  those  of  the  Prince,  and  once  he  had 
to  stop  to  let  his  Majesty  get  farther  ahead  of  him,  etc. 

There  is  nothing  here  which  might  not  have  belonged  to  the 
real  scene,  but  the  stupid  piling  up  of  details  has  so  blurred 
the  outlines  that  the  whole  effect  is  spoiled.1 

The  foregoing  example  illustrates  in  large  degree  the 
over-elaboration  of  details  of  action,  but  that  the  prin- 
ciple holds  equally  well  of  the  descriptive  details  in -set- 
ting will  be  apparent  if  one  will  revert  to  the  grindstone 
scene  in  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities  alluded  to  on  p.  16.  The 
paragraph  following  the  scene  of  mad  riot  in  the  tavern 
yard  states  that 

All  this  was  seen  in  a  moment,  as  the  vision  of  a  drowning 
man,  or  of  any  human  creature  at  any  very  great  pass,  could 
see  in  a  world  if  it  were  there. 

This  conception  is  sustained  by  the  details  presented. 
Only  two  out  of  the  entire  mob  of  forty  or  fifty  frenzied 
savages  appear  with  individual  distinctness;  the  rest  are 
described  in  general  terms :  — 

.  .  .  Some  women  held  wine  to  their  mouths  that  they  might 
drink. 

.  .  .  Shouldering  one  another  to  get  next  at  the  sharpening 
stone  were  men  stripped  to  the  waist,  etc. 

1  Arlo  Bates's  Talks  on  Writing  English  (Second  Series),  pp.  196— 
197.  Published  by  Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 


THE  BACKGROUND  OF  THE  ACTION        93 

One  sees  them  all  as  a  howling,  shrieking,  maddened 
crew,  not  as  individuals  picked  out  with  photographic 
distinctness.  In  this  unconscious  selection  of  the  telling 
details  and  in  the  omission  of  a  thousand  other  details  that 
he  might  have  included,  Dickens  shows  his  artistic  sense 
and  incidentally  succeeds  in  presenting  the  scene  with 
infinitely  greater  effect.  The  dramatic  loss  will  at  once 
become  apparent  if  after  the  picture  of  the  two  ruffians 
at  the  stone  one  inserts  additional  details  in  this  man- 
ner: — 

.  .  .  And  what  with  dropping  blood,  and  what  with  drop- 
ping wine,  and  what  with  the  stream  of  sparks  struck  out  of 
the  stone,  all  their  wicked  atmosphere  seemed  gore  and  fire. 
Standing  in  a  doorway  of  rough  stone  just  below  the  window- 
ledge  and  some  eight  or  ten  feet  to  the  right,  Mr.  Lorry  ob- 
served a  striking  figure.  It  was  that  of  a  stout  woman,  per- 
haps thirty  years  of  age,  with  a  watchful  eye,  a  large  hand 
heavily  ringed,  a  steady  face,  strong  features,  and  great  com- 
posure of  manner.  A  quantity  of  bright  shawl  was  twined 
about  her  head,  though  not  to  the  concealment  of  two  large 
ear-rings.  Her  right  elbow  sustained  by  her  left  hand,  she 
silently  watched  the  scene  by  the  grindstone.  Save  for  this  one 
figure,  the  eye  could  not  detect  one  creature  in  the  group  free 
from  the  smear  of  blood.  Etc.,  etc.  .  .  . 

This  does  not  improve  the  picture.  Although  these 
very  details  serve  their  purpose  elsewhere  in  the  story, 
their  insertion  at  this  point  seriously  affects  the  vivid- 
ness of  the  scene.  It  becomes  a  mere  snap-shot,  omitting 
nothing  within  the  range  of  vision.  But  snap-shots,  how- 
ever exact,  are  not  generally  recognized  as  the  highest 
form  of  art.  Artistic  description  seeks  the  most  sugges- 
tive details,  —  details  that  shall  suggest  what  is  intended 
and  yet  leave  some  freedom  to  the  reader's  individual 
imagination.  One  will  designedly  omit  prominent  details 


94    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

if  by  so  doing  he  can  better  produce  the  desired  effect. 
Eden  Phillpotts  recognizes  this  principle  in  the  following 
passage :  — 

"A  gentleman  stopped  in  our  best  bedroom  and  parlour  a 
year  back,"  continued  Simon,  "and  his  custom  was  to  paint 
pickshers.  And  once  I  corned  this  way  and  he  was  painting 
pretty  near  where  we  be  standing  now.  And  I  made  so  bold  as 
to  look,  and  then  I  made  so  bold  as  to  talk,  because  the  gentle- 
man axed  me  what  I  thought  of  it.  '  You ' ve  left  out  the  church 
tower,'  I  says  to  him.  'Yes,'  he  says,  '  'twas  n't  like  I  was 
going  to  stick  such  a  beastly,  ugly  thing  as  that  in  the  midst  of 
they  hills.'  So  he  left  it  out,  though  to  my  eye  't  was  the  most 
interesting  sight  to  be  seen." 

"Did  he  make  his  pickshers  for  pleasure,  or  did  he  get  any- 
thing by  them?"  asked  Rhoda. 

"  He  lived  by  'em.  He  said  to  me  once  that  there  were  one  or 
two  sane  men  in  the  world  who  bought  everything  he  liked  to 
paint.  'T  was  a  very  curious  speech  to  my  ear.  And  to  be 
honest  with  you,  I  did  n't  like  his  pickshers  —  and  half  done 
to  my  eye  —  very  different  to  the  pickshers  you  see  on  grocers' 
almanacs,  where  everything,  to  the  hairs  on  a  horse's  tail,  be 
worked  out  to  a  miracle.1 

The  artist  selects  only  those  details  that  contribute  to 
his  purpose;  the  compiler  of  the  almanac  includes  every- 
thing. 

Among  recent  writers  of  fiction  Frank  Norris  is  noted 
for  his  realistic  descriptive  power;  but  the  reader  is 
sometimes  impelled  to  feel  that  details  are  unduly  mul- 
tiplied. A  typical  passage  is  the  well-known  picture  of 
the  Wheat  Pit  of  the  Board  of  Trade  as  presented  at  the 
close  of  chapter  in  in  The  Pit.  Vivid,  photographic  to 
the  last  degree,  the  scene  certainly  is,  but  one  may  ask 

1  Phillpotts's  The  Virgin  in  Judgment.  By  permission  of  Moffat, 
Yard,  and  Company. 


THE  BACKGROUND  OF  THE  ACTION        95 

whether  less  exactness  and  slightly  freer  play  for  the.  im- 
agination might  not  contribute  added  effectiveness. 

This  question  of  selection  and  omission  is,  in  a  sense, 
but  a  corollary  to  the  larger  theme  of  romantic  and  real- 
istic description.  These  are  broad  terms,  and  can  be 
discussed  at  length  only  in  an  exhaustive  consideration  of 
description  as  a  form  of  discourse.  But,  without  going 
too  deeply  into  the  matter,  we  may  note  that  the  char- 
acter of  the  narrative  will  in  large  degree  determine  the 
character  of  the  details  to  be  chosen  by  the  artist.  In 
general,  the  romantic  writer  is  principally  concerned 
with  artistic  fitness.  He  strives  to  present  with  the 
greatest  possible  effectiveness  the  characters  and  the 
action  of  his  narrative.  His  own  personality,  the  subjec- 
tive element,  will,  to  a  greater  or  less  extent,  permeate 
his  setting.  His  inventiveness,  his  imagination,  will  be 
called  into  play,  and  although  his  background  may  be 
no  more  actual  than  the  Forest  of  Arden,  and  although 
he  may  depart  widely  from  the  verified  observations  set 
down  in  the  geographies,  yet  it  will  serve  an  artistic 
purpose  and  will  be  essentially  true.  In  realistic  writing, 
onthepther  hand,  as  seen  in  the  citation  fromNorris  the 
artist  seeks  verisimilitude,  truth  to  actuality.  His  atti- 
tude to  his  work  becomes  less  subjective,  and  more  objec- 
tive. But  whether,  in  romantic  mood,  the  writer  uses  sub- 
jective description  to  secure  fit  setting  for  his  narrative, 
or  whether  he  writes  with  realistic  adherence  to  actual 
observation,  he  is  bound  by  the  principles  of  due  selection 
and  omission  as  already  set  forth.  For  the  time  being, 
the  scene  must  carry  conviction.  Whether  the  reader 
stands  before  the  bleak  walls  of  the  melancholy  House  of 
Usher  or  looks  down  upon  the  shattering  chaos  of  the 
Wheat  Pit  in  Chicago,  he  must  for  the  moment  realize 
the  essential  truth  of  the  picture  before  him. 


96    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

The  undue  multiplication  of  descriptive  details 
merges  into  the  second  fault  of  exaggerated  setting  (see 
p.  90)  —  the  use  of  description  for  its  own  sake.  Artis- 
tic description  sometimes  tempts  the  artist  too  far  afield, 
and  the  composition  loses  entirely  its  original  charac- 
ter. The  sketch  and  the  picturesque  narrative,  indeed, 
have  their  place,  but  the  chronicler,  as  narration  is  his 
purpose,  should  exercise  care  that  he  does  not  forget  that 
purpose  in  the  intoxication  of  descriptive  elaboration. 
If  description  be  the  end  in  view,  then  —  as  has  already 
been  explained  (p.  14)  —  the  device  of  narrative  descrip- 
tion is  at  one's  disposal,  but  the  end  in  that  case  is  to 
present  a  picture,  not  to  chronicle  the  details  of  an  oc- 
currence. It  would  sometimes  seem  that  Dickens  carries 
too  far  his  fondness  for  descriptive  writing,  and  his  pic- 
tures, wonderful  indeed  in  their  vividness,  retard  the 
progress  of  the  narrative.  In  many  cases  the  extended 
descriptive  passages  serve  a  distinct  purpose  in  creating 
an  atmosphere  for  the  events  that  are  chronicled,  as  in 
the  well-known  "  good-humoured  Christmas  chapter  "  of 
Pickwick  Papers;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  the  opening 
chapter  of  Bleak  House  may  be  open  to  some  criticism 
as  suggesting  description  merely  for  its  own  sake  and 
indicating  temporary  forgetfulness  of  the  main  action. 
Again,  one  is  disposed  to  challenge  the  picture  of  the 
boisterous  wind  and  the  flying  leaves  in  chapter  n  of 
Martin  Chuzzlewit.  The  realism  of  the  scene  cannot  be 
disputed;  many  an  admirer  of  Dickens  has  read  it 
again  and  again  with  delight.  But  what  is  its  narra- 
tive purpose?  How  does  it  advance  the  action  or  in 
any  degree  render  it  more  effective?  It  seems  to  serve 
no  greater  purpose  than  to  slam  the  street  door  in  Mr. 
Pecksniff's  face  and  to  knock  that  gentleman  down  his 
own  front  steps.  And  if  this  be  all,  one  may  well  ask  if 


THE  BACKGROUND  OF  THE  ACTION        97 

the  author  is  justified  in  the  elaboration  of  a  scene  of 
three  or  four  paragraphs  for  so  trivial  an  end. 

The  following  undergraduate  sketch,  entitled  "The 
Priest,"  is  an  example  of  composition  wherein  one  is 
justified  in  making  description  the  principal  form  of 
discourse,  for  the  purpose  is  frankly  to  present  a  picture 
and  nothing  more.  The  narrative  mould  is  merely  inci- 
dental. The  writer  has  chosen  narrative  description  as 
the  most  effective  means  of  accomplishing  his  artistic 
purpose. 

'T  was  one  of  those  bright  warm  days  in  midsummer  when 
the  busy  farmer  folk  had  deserted  the  village  for  the  hay-fields, 
and  there  was  left  about  the  grocery  store  only  a  crippled 
loafer,  and  upon  the  village  green  but  a  few  sleepy  summer 
boarders  in  their  easy  chairs. 

Bill  Russell  and  I  lay  in  the  cool  shade  of  a  maple,  blow- 
ing rings  of  tobacco  smoke  in  the  still  air,  lazily  gazing  at  the 
occasional  passer-by,  and  wondering  what  business  he  had  to 
move  on  such  a  day.  A  grocery  wagon  rattled  by,  and  the  dust 
behind  it  settled  back  into  the  wagon  tracks  without  being 
wafted  even  to  the  ditches.  Then,  like  a  big,  lumbering  ele- 
phant, a  load  of  hay  crawled  by,  gently  reminding  us  that 
beyond  the  sleepy  village  there  were  busy  times.  But  some 
fishermen  returning  early  from  the  lake  told  us  that  even  for 
fishing  the  day  was  too  bright  and  still. 

So  we  lay  there  in  the  shade,  and  for  some  time  no  one 
passed.  Then  from  down  the  road  we  heard  the  rapid  "chug, 
chug"  of  a  pacer  beating  the  dust,  and  there  dashed  into  sight 
a  lathered  horse  and  a  buggy,  too  light,  it  seemed,  for  the  cor- 
pulent man  who  spread  himself  all  over  the  seat.  In  his  mouth 
was  a  fat  cigar,  the  smoke  from  which  had  to  roll  quite  around 
the  broad  spongy  face  before  mingling  with  the  dust  behind. 
As  he  came  nearer  he  took  the  cigar  between  his  short,  fat 
fingers,  and  with  tKe  air  of  a  connoisseur  flicked  off  the  ashes 
with  his  little  finger,  at  the  same  time  heaving  a  guttural  cough 


98    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

which  caused  the  breast  of  his  linen  duster  to  rise  and  fall  like  a 
bellows,  and  loosened  the  damp  handkerchief  which  was  about 
his  collar. 

"He's  the  strangest  looking  horse-doctor  I've  seen  in  this 
township,"  I  remarked  to  Bill. 

"Then  you're  not  very  well  acquainted  hereabouts,"  sug- 
gested Bill  laughing. 

"He  reminds  me  of  that  old  boozer,  the  priest  Rudiman  in 
Scheffel's  Ekkehard"  I  added. 

Bill  smiled,  but  kept  a  discreet  silence. 

Hardly  five  minutes  had  elapsed  when  the  same  rig  came 
down  the  street  again. 

"What  in !  Who  are  those  people  with  him?"  I  ex- 
claimed, for  beside  my  horse-doctor  was  the  Catholic  priest  of 
the  town,  a  pleasant-faced  gentleman,  in  a  purely  clerical 
dress,  and,  perched  between  the  two  men,  seated  on  a  knee  of 
each,  was  a  nun.  She  was  smiling  beneath  her  hood,  and  the 
men  were  exchanging  pleasantries  as  they  drove  by  us;  and 
when  they  had  passed  I  could  seerthe  horse-doctor,  his  linen 
duster  pressed  snugly  against  the  bars  of  the  lowered  buggy- 
top,  he  himself  shaking  with  laughter. 

With  an  astonished  look  I  turned  to  Bill,  whom  I  saw  snick- 
ering to  himself. 

"Who  is  that  fellow,  anyway?"  I  inquired. 

"Why,  your  horse-doctor  is  the  visiting  priest  of  the 
county,"  was  the  reply. 

One  fault  often  found  in  connection  with  over-elabor- 
ation of  setting  is  artificial  appeal  to  the  emotions,  — 
that  is,  appeal  based  on  no  sincere  feeling  on  the  writer's 
part.  In  the  well-known  chapter  in  Modern  Painters,  in 
which  he  expounds  what  he  calls  the  "pathetic  fallacy," 
Ruskin  discusses  this  phase  of  literary  insincerity.  He 
enlarges  upon  the  excited  state  of  the  feelings,  under 
the  influence  of  which  a  writer,  for  the  time  being  blinded 
to  realities,  becomes  more  or  less  irrational  and  thinks 


THE  BACKGROUND  OF  THE  ACTION        99 

in  metaphors.  This  illogical  frame  of  mind  is  common 
among  writers  of  highly  emotional  temperament;  the 
works  of  the  poets,  for  example,  abound  in  conceits  that 
emanate  from  highly  wrought  —  although  thoroughly 
sincere  —  imaginative  faculties.  But  it  is  no  uncommon 
thing  to  meet  with  passages  characterized  by  insincere 
emotion;  burning  words  abound,  indeed,  but  there  is  no 
soul  in  them.  One  finds  all  the  outward  trappings  of 
woe,  of  elation,  of  despair;  yet  the  spirit  remains  chill, 
all  seems  studied  and  artificial.  If  artistic  setting  is  to  be 
effective  it  must  be  sincere;  mere  multiplication  of  words 
and  of  figures  of  speech  does  not  constitute  effective 
description.  Ruskin,  indeed,  would  seem  to  maintain 
that  the  manifestation  of  deep  emotion  through  figurative 
speech  betrays  weakness,  showing  that  a  writer's  imagi- 
nation has  mastered  his  powers  of  seeing  truly,  and  thus 
has  precluded  him  from  taking  rank  with  the  really  great 
ones  in  literature.  But  even  worse,  he  says,  are  those  in 
whose  work  fanciful,  metaphorical  "expressions  are  not 
ignorantly  and  fearlessly  caught  up,  but,  by  some  master, 
skilful  in  handling,  yet  insincere,  deliberately  wrought 
out  with  chill  and  studied  fancy;  as  if  we  should  try  to 
make  an  old  lava  stream  look  red-hot  again,  by  covering 
it  with  dead  leaves,  or  white-hot,  with  hoar  frost." 

It  is  this  deliberate  and  studied  attempt  to  imitate  true 
emotion  that  often  gives  to  the  conventional  undergradu- 
ate story  an  atmosphere  of  mawkish  sentimentality  or  of 
vain  rant.  The  young  writer,  feeling  no  true  sympathy 
with  the  scene  that  he  strives  to  picture,  yet  realizing 
the  effectiveness  that  belongs  to  emotion  well  rendered, 
presses  remote  metaphors  and  similes  into  his  service 
and  strains  his  fancy  to  the  breaking-point.  The  result 
is  superficiality,  exaggeration,  bathos.  Passages  like  the 
following  illustrate  the  effect:  — 


100   RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

"  He  whirled  her  away  from  the  lingering  crowd  of  men. 
They  were  the  first  to  glide  out  upon  the  smooth  yellow  floor. 
Out  into  the  lights  they  waltzed;  out  into  the  festooned  room; 
under  the  sweeping  wreaths  of  evergreen;  through  the  sweet, 
pungent  perfume  of  freshly  cut  pine.  The  spell  of  measured 
music  floated  over  the  room,  as  from  generations  of  the  past 
and  of  the  future,  the  passion  of  rhythm  played  upon  their 
hearts  and  swept  like  some  mystic  love  note  into  their  souls, 
setting  them  atune.  Across  the  hall  of  dazzling  light,  gently 
waving  as  in  the  hot  Trade  Winds  from  the  Orient,  the  um- 
brella palms  were  inviting  seclusion.  Behind  them  the  bitter 
wind  tore  at  the  window,"  etc.,  etc. 

"  But  no  trace  of  his  confusion  was  visible  in  his  face  as  he 
again,  on  this  wintry  evening,  confronted  Dorothy.  She  was 
more  than  pretty  to-night,  —  in  her  simple  and  home-like 
way,  she  was  beautiful.  A  single  white  rosebud  vaunted  itself 
in  her  wavy  dark  brown  hair.  Her  guileless  blue  eyes  were  the 
soul  of  intoxicating  humor;  the  deep  red  of  her  lips  put  to  shame 
the  faint  pinkness  of  her  dress,"  etc.,  etc. 

"  He  then  mumbled  about  an  old  sweetheart  of  his*,  who  had 
rejected  him;  of  the  'boys,'  —  those  'friends'  who  had  re- 
mained faithful  to  him  only  as  long  as  his  money  had  lasted. 
Suddenly,  as  quickly  as  the  crack  of  the  ring-master's  whip, 
his  countenance  changed.  The  very  muscles  of  his  face  seemed 
to  stand  out  in  his  intense  agony,  that  agony  which  only  those 
can  feel  who  have  tasted  of  that  bitterest  cup  of  pain  — 
despair.  I  had  never  before  understood  how  it  was  possible  to 
weep  without  a  movement  of  the  muscles.  I  understood  then. 
This  man  was  weeping,  —  but  down  in  the  depths  of  his  soul. 
As  I  gazed  upon  his  face,  I  saw  that  it  was  scarred;  the  fore- 
head was  furrowed  with  deep  wrinkles,  and,  although  he 
looked  as  if  he  were  under  thirty  years  of  age,  his  hair  in  spots 
was  a  pronounced  gray.  But  despite  his  repulsive  physiog- 
nomy, there  was  something  in  that  face  that  showed  that  he 
had  a  warm,  true  heart  wrapped  in  the  rags  that  he  called 


THE  BACKGROUND  OF  THE  ACTION       K/l 

clothes.  I  really  pitied  the  fellow.  What  joy  was  left  to  him? 
Even  the  tiny  violet,  the  first  to  bloom  of  all  flowers,  shyly 
peeping  above  the  ground  and  heralding  the  summer  and  its 
wealth  of  beauty  and  sunshine,  told  him  only  that  the  hot  rays 
of  the  midsummer-sun,  beating  upon  him  from  above  and 
refracted  from  the  scorching  highway  beneath,  would  cause 
him  to  swelter  and  curse  himself,  his  fellow-men,  and  perhaps 
even  his  Creator!" 

Development  of  Setting  in  Narrative  Writing 

The  elaboration  of  setting  as  an  element  in  narrative 
writing  is  a  matter  of  comparatively  recent  growth.  In 
early  literature  narration  was  confined  to  the  one  pur- 
pose of  chronicling  events,  and  descriptive  details  were  at 
best  barely  suggested.  The  value  of  effective  background 
was  not  yet  appreciated.  In  Materials  and  Methods 
of  Fiction 1  Mr.  Clayton  Hamilton  has  drawn  a  some- 
what detailed  comparison  between  the  development  of 
background  in  figure-painting  and  of  setting  in  litera- 
ture. In  the  evolution  of  figure-painting  there  have 
been,  he  tells  us,  three  stages.  In  the  first  of  these  back- 
ground plays  no  essential  part.  If  it  is  present  at  all, 
it  is  insignificant,  and  the  figures  themselves  are  the  sole 
concern  of  the  artist.  In  the  second  stage,  represented 
by  the  great  Italian  artists  at  the  period  of  their  full 
maturity,  background  begins  to  assume  a  place  of  some 
importance.  But  its  function  is  purely  decorative; 
whether  of  color  or  of  line  it  has  no  basis  in  realism,  but 
is  purely  a  conventional  device.  Finally,  in  the  third 
stage,  background  stands  in  definite  relation  to  the  fig- 
ures that  are  projected  upon  it.  Each  is  in  keeping  with 
the  other,  and  each  gives  effect  to  the  other.  "The 
Angelus '  is  neither  figure-painting  nor  landscape-paint- 

1  Chap.  vi. 


"lOS   RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

ing  merely;  it  is  both."  In  narrative  writing  there  has 
been  a  similar  evolution  from  the  absence  of  all  setting 
to  full  harmony  between  setting  and  action. 

The  advance  from  simple  enumeration  to  elaborated 
narrative  is  apparent  if  we  compare  a  passage  from  one 
of  the  old  chroniclers  with  the  work  of  a  modern  his- 
torian. Of  the  old  chroniclers  Taine  writes :  — 

They  spun  out  awkwardly  and  heavily  dry  chronicles,  a 
sort  of  historical  almanac.  You  might  think  them  peasants, 
who,  returning  from  their  toil,  came  and  scribbled  with  chalk 
on  a  smoky  table  the  date  of  a  year  of  scarcity,  the  price  of 
corn,  the  change  in  the  weather,  a  death. 

As  examples  of  their  method  he  cites  the  following:  — 

A.D.  611.  This  year  Cynegils  succeeded  to  the  government 
in  Wessex,  and  held  it  one-and-thirty  winters.  Cynegils  was 
the  son  of  Ceol,  Ceol  of  Cutha,  Cutha  of  Cynric. 

614.  This  year  Cynegils  and  Cnichelm  fought  at  Bampton, 
and  slew  two  thousand  and  forty-six  of  the  Welsh. 

678.  This  year  appeared  the  comet-star  in  August,  and 
shone  every  morning  during  three  months  like  a  sunbeam. 
Bishop  Wilfrid  being  driven  from  his  bishopric  by  King 
Everth,  two  bishops  were  consecrated  in  his  stead. 

1077.  This  year  were  reconciled  the  King  of  the  Franks,  and 
William,  King  of  England.  But  it  continued  only  a  little 
while.  This  year  was  London  burned,  one  night  before  the 
Assumption  of  St.  Mary,  so  terribly  as  it  never  was  before  it 
was  built. 

Compare  with  the  foregoing  the  well-known  passage 
of  Macaulay  regarding  the  trial  of  Warren  Hastings  in 
Westminster  Hall.  The  difference  between  the  two 
compositions  is  not  simply  the  difference  between 
eleventh-  and  nineteenth-century  prose;  it  is  a  difference 
between  methods;  between  satisfaction  with  the  bare 


THE  BACKGROUND  OF  THE  ACTION       103 

elements  of  narrative,  with  the  meagre  indication  of  the 
occurrence  or  transaction,  and  appreciative  grasp  of  all 
the  attendant  pomp  and  historic  association  that  rend- 
ered Westminster  Hall  a  most  effective  setting  for  the 
dramatic  circumstances  attending  the  trial  of  Hastings. 
One  of  the  old  chroniclers  would  have  been  satisfied  with 
an  entry  after  this  order,  — 

A.D.  1788.  This  year  Charles  the  Fourth  succeeded  to  the 
Throne  of  Spain.  This  year  Warren  Hastings  was  impeached. 

—  and  would  have  hurried  on  to  an  eclipse  or  a  famine  or 
a  pestilence  that  made  its  appearance  during  the  same 
year.  And  the  contrast  becomes  the  more  striking  when 
one  remembers  that  the  bare  chronicle  was  composed 
amid  all  the  leisure  of  monastery  regime,  when  elabora- 
tion would  have  been  easy  had  it  been  the  literary  fash- 
ion; whereas  the  more  highly  picturesque  style  belongs 
to  a  day  of  less  leisure  and  of  fuller  appreciation  of  the 
value  of  historic  fact. 

In  fiction,  where  there  is  stronger  appeal  to  the  imag- 
ination than  in  the  history  of  actual  occurrences,  the 
stages  that  Mr.  Hamilton  has  traced  in  the  evolution  of 
figure-painting  can  be  followed  in  greater  detail.  From 
the  very  fact  that  fiction  approaches  less  closely  to  ex- 
position than  does  history  and  is,  in  consequence,  more 
imaginative  and  less  intellectual  in  its  appeal,  we  are 
more  likejy  to  find  in  fiction  fuller  development  of  the 
various  devices  for  securing  dramatic  effect.  The  fol- 
lowing modernized  rendering  of  a  mediaeval  short-story 
is  illustrative  of  the  first  stage,  of  the  mere  chronicle  in 
which  action  is  everything  and  setting  plays  no  part:  — 

A  young  man  late  married  to  a  wife  thought  it  was  good 
policy  to  get  the  mastery  of  her  in  the  beginning.  The  pot 


104   RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

boiling  over,  although  the  meat  was  not  done,  he  suddenly 
commanded  her  to  take  the  pot  from  the  fire.  But  she  replied 
that  the  meat  was  not  ready  to  eat.  And  he  said,  "I  will  have 
it  taken  off  because  it  is  my  pleasure."  The  woman,  loath  to 
offend  him,  set  the  pot  beside  the  fire  as  he  bade.  And  he* 
commanded  her  to  set  the  pot  behind  the  door,  and  she  replied, 
"You  are  not  wise  to  do  this."  But  he  insisted  that  it  should 
be  as  he  ordered.  And  again  she  gently  did  as  he  bade.  The 
man,  not  yet  satisfied,  ordered  her  to  set  the  pot  high  up  on  the 
hen  roost.  *'But,"  quoth  his  wife,  "I  believe  you  are  mad." 
And  he  then  fiercely  ordered  her  to  set  it  there  or  she  should 
repent.  She,  somewhat  fearful  of  arousing  his  temper,  took  a 
ladder  and  set  it  against  the  roost  and  went  herself  up  the 
ladder  and  took  the  pot  in  her  hands,  praying  her  husband  to 
hold  the  ladder  fast  lest  it  should  slip,  which  he  did. 

And  when  her  husband  looked  up  and  saw  the  pot  standing 
there  on  high  h€  spoke  thus:  "Lo,  there  stands  the  pot  where  I 
would  have  it."  His  wife  hearing  this,  suddenly  poured  the 
hot  pottage  on  his  head  and  said  thus:  "And  there  is  the  pot- 
tage where  I  would  have  it."  1 

In  the  second  stage  of  its  development  we  find  back- 
ground merely  as  an  artistic  decoration,  serving  no  dis- 
tinctly dramatic  purpose  in  connection  with  the  action. 
Such  setting  appears  in  the  work  of  the  pastoral  poets 
and  novelists  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries 
like  Spenser,  Sidney,  and  Lodge,  writers  whose  work 
abounds  in  descriptive  passages  that  add  nothing  essen- 
tial to  the  effectiveness  of  the  plot  action.  Later,  in  the 
sentimental  efforts  of  the  eighteenth-century  novelists, 
abundant  illustrations  of  this  stage  appear.  The  follow- 
ing are  typical :  - 

I  gained  the  eastern  extremity  of  the  ridge,  that  I  might  the 
more  amply  enjoy  the  beams  of  the  setting  sun  as  he  sunk 

1  Adapted  from  Early  English  Prose  Romances.  By  permission  of 
Messrs.  E.  P.  Dutton  and  Company. 


THE  BACKGROUND  OF  THE  ACTION       105 

beneath  the  waves  of  the  Irish  Sea.  It  was  the  finest  evening 
my  eyes  ever  beheld.  The  resplendent  colours  of  the  clouds, 
the  rich  purple  and  burnished  gold  in  various  streaks  fantasti- 
cally formed  and  repeated,  were  beyond  any  imagination  to 
conceive.  The  woods  were  vocal.  The  scents  that  surrounded 
me,  the  steaming  earth,  the  fresh  and  invigorating  air,  the  hay 
and  the  flowers,  constituted,  so  to  express  myself,  an  olfactory 
concert  infinitely  more  ravishing  than  all  the  concords  of  har- 
monious sound  art  ever  produced.  This  lonely  moment  com- 
bined in  one  impression  the  freshness  of  the  finest  morning, 
with  all  the  rich  and  gorgeous  effects  peculiar  to  the  close  of  a 
summer's  day.1 

It  was  now  the  second  watch  of  the  night.  .  .  .  Emily 
heard  the  passing  steps  of  the  sentinels  on  the  rampart,  as  they 
changed  guard;  and,  when  all  was  again  silent,  she  took  her 
station  at  the  casement,  leaving  her  lamp  in  a  remote  part  of 
the  chamber,  that  she  might  escape  notice  from  without.  The 
moon  gave  a  faint  and  uncertain  light,  for  heavy  vapours  sur- 
rounded it,  and,  after  rolling  over  the  disk,  left  the  scene 
below  in  total  darkness.  .  .  .  Sometimes  a  cloud  opened  its 
light  upon  a  distant  mountain,  and,  while  the  sudden  splen- 
dour illumined  all  its  recesses  of  rock  and  wood,  the  rest  of 
the  scene  remained  in  deep  shadow;  at  others,  partial  features 
of  the  castle  were  revealed  by  the  glimpse  —  the  ancient  arch 
leading  to  the  east  rampart,  the  turret  above,  or  the  fortifica- 
tions beyond;  and  then,  perhaps,  the  whole  edifice,  with  all  its 
towers,  its  dark,  massy  walls,  and  pointed  casements,  would 
appear  and  vanish  in  an  instant.2 

If  the  elaborated  but  artificial  pictures  of  this  order 
serve  any  dramatic  purpose  in  heightening  the  effect 
of  the  action,  it  is  of  the  slightest.  "  Snowy  mountain 
summits  tinged  with  roseate  hues,"  "deep  volleys  of 

1  William  Godwin:  Fleetwood. 

2  Mrs.  Radcliffe:  The  Mysteries  ofudolpho. 


106   RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

rolling  thunder  and  the  flashing  of  livid  lightning," 
"glimpses  of  ruined  watch-towers  standing  on  points  of 
rock  and  rising  from  among  the  tufted  foliage,"  —  all 
such  details  impart  a  certain  air  of  romance,  but  they 
contribute  none  of  the  effectiveness  and  unity  of  back- 
ground and  action  that  we  find,  for  example,  in  the 
works  of  George  Eliot  or  of  Stevenson.  The  novelists 
of  Godwin's  time  had  gone  more  or  less  mad  after  Nature 
and  the  "simple  life."  Their  frequent  indulgence  in  ro- 
mantic landscape  painting  was  inspired  largely  by  the 
same  influences  that  led  Coleridge  and  Southey  to  dream 
of  a  "pantisocracy  "  in  the  wilds  of  the  American  forest, 
and  tempted  certain  apparently  sane  fathers  and  mothers 
to  bring  up  their  children  after  the  manner  of  savages, 
in  order  that  being  thus  "natural"  they  might  be  free 
from  the  artificialities  of  social  intercourse. 

But  with  the  perfection  of  the  English  novel  that  ap- 
peared in  the  next  literary  generation  there  came  a  much 
fuller  appreciation  of  the  value  of  setting  as  auxiliary  to 
plot.  From  Scott  and  his  contemporaries  down  to  the 
novelists  of  our  own  time  we  find  abundant  illustration 
of  the  various  devices  to  which  the  present  chapter  has 
called  attention  and  which  have  rendered  more  drama- 
tic, forceful,  and  effective  the  main  incidents  of  the 
narrative. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION:  CHARACTER 

WHEN  one  reads  a  complete  narrative,  the  first  interest 
usually  centres  in  the  significance  of  the  details  that 
constitute  the  action.  For  example,  in  Bret  Harte's  The 
Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat  the  first  concern  will  be  with  the 
fortunes  of  the  little  band  snowbound  amid  the  moun- 
tains between  Poker  Flat  and  Sandy  Bar.  But  after 
curiosity  as  to  their  fate  has  been  satisfied,  the  appeal  that 
induces  one  to  read  the  narrative  a  second  time  is  some- 
thing deeper  than  mere  curiosity.  This  residuum  of  inter- 
est in  many  cases  proceeds  from  beauty  of  setting,  from 
effective  portrayal  of  nature.  But  in  The  Outcasts  of 
Poker  Flat,  although  setting  plays  considerable  part  in  the 
narrative,  it  can  hardly  be  called  the  ultimate  source  of 
charm.  That  is  to  be  found  in  the  portraiture  of  human 
personalities,  revolting  perhaps  at  first  acquaintance, 
but,  amid  peril  and  starvation,  rising  to  the  level  of  the 
heroic.  The  ultimate  power  of  the  narrative  will  prob- 
ably centre  in  the  delineation  of  the  actors  rather  than 
in  the  action  or  in  the  background;  that  is,  not  so  much 
in  plot  or  setting  as  in  character. 

DEFINITION  OF  "CHARACTER" 

In  discussing  this  personal  element  in  narrative  writ- 
ing, it  is  necessary  at  the  outset  to  note  two  senses  in 
which  the  word  "character"  is  used.  It  may  have  refer- 
ence to  the  actors  externally,  objectively,  as  mere  person- 
ages;  or  it  may  convey  the  deeper  internal  significance  of 


108   RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

personality.  For  instance,  in  The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat 
Uncle  Billy  is  introduced  as  "a  suspected  sluice-robber 
and  confirmed  drunkard."  This  identifies  him  as  one  of 
the  dramatis  persona?;  it  classifies  him  externally.  But  it 
cannot  be  said  to  individualize  him,  to  distinguish  him 
from  others  of  his  type,  any  more  than  Dickens 's  epithets 
individualize  some  of  his  creations,  —  for  example,  "the 
stranger,"  "the  scientific  gentleman,"  "the  man  with 
the  horrible  face."  Later  in  the  story,  however,  on  the 
morning  after  Tom's  and  Piney's  arrival,  when  Oakhurst 
awakes  benumbed  with  the  cold  and  is  appalled  to  find 
snow  falling,  we  read :  — 

He  started  to  his  feet  with  the  intention  of  awakening  the 
sleepers,  for  there  was  no  time  to  lose.  But,  turning  to  where 
Uncle  Billy  had  been  lying,  he  found  him  gone.  A  suspicion 
leaped  to  his  brain  and  a  curse  to  his  lips.  He  ran  to  the  spot 
where  the  mules  had  been  tethered ;  they  were  no  longer  there. 
The  tracks  were  already  rapidly  disappearing  in  the  snow. 

These  sentences  characterize  Uncle  Billy  more  deeply, 
individualize  him  far  more  accurately,  than  do  the  terms 
"suspected  sluice-robber  and  confirmed  drunkard." 
As  a  robber  and  drunkard  he  is  a  mere  personage,  dis- 
tinguished indeed  from  the  other  personages  of  the  nar- 
rative; but,  as  an  individual,  essentially  himself,  he  is  a 
man  who  not  only  will  desert  his  companions,  but,  in 
order  to  elude  pursuit  and  preserve  his  own  skin,  will  de- 
prive them  of  every  chance  of  securing  their  own  escape 
from  peril.  Uncle  Billy,  in  this  sense,  is  a  personality,  a 
character  despicable  and  cowardly. 

The  following  passages,  selected  from  George  Eliot's 
Adam  Bede,  present  good  illustration  of  the  two  methods 
of  character  presentation.  In  the  first,  the  reader  sees 
Adam  Bede,  a  muscular,  broad-chested  young  carpen- 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  109 

ter,  working  at  his  bench;  he  is  simply  one  of  five 
workingmen  who  occupy  the  stage  at  the  beginning  of 
the  narrative.  Of  his  personality,  of  the  individual  traits 
that  differentiate  him  from  his  companions,  we  know 
nothing  save  what  we  may  infer  from  the  general  intelli- 
gence and  manliness  evidenced  in  his  appearance  as  he 
stands  in  the  workshop  of  Mr.  Jonathan  Burge  one  June 
morning. 

(a)  The  afternoon  sun  was  warm  on  the  five  workmen  there, 
busy  upon  doors  and  window-frames  and  wainscoting.  A 
scent  of  pine-wood  from  a  tent-like  pile  of  planks  outside  the 
open  door  mingled  itself  with  the  scent  of  the  elder-bushes 
which  were  spreading  their  summer  snow  close  to  the  open 
window  opposite;  the  slanting  sunbeams  shone  through  the 
transparent  shavings  that  flew  before  the  steady  plane,  and  lit 
up  the  fine  grain  of  the  oak  panelling  which  stood  propped 
against  the  wall.  On  a  heap  of  those  soft  shavings  a  rough 
gray  shepherd-dog  had  made  himself  a  pleasant  bed,  and 
was  lying  with  his  nose  between  his  fore-paws,  occasionally 
wrinkling  his  brows  to  cast  a  glance  at  the  tallest  of  the  five 
workmen,  who  was  carving  a  shield  in  the  centre  of  a  wooden 
mantel-piece.  It  was  to  this  workman  that  the  strong  barytone 
voice  belonged  which  was  heard  above  the  sound  of  plane  and 
hammer  singing  — 

"Awake  my  soul,  and  with  the  sun 
Thy  daily  stage  of  duty  run; 
Shake  off  dull  sloth.  .  .  ." 

Here  some  measurement  was  to  be  taken  which  required  more 
concentrated  attention,  and  the  sonorous  voice  subsided  into 
a  low  whistle;  but  it  presently  broke  out  again  with  renewed 
vigor  — 

"Let  all  thy  converse  be  sincere, 
Thy  conscience  as  the  noonday  clear." 

Such  a  voice  could  only  come  from  a  broad  chest,  and  the  broad 
chest  belonged  to  a  large-boned  muscular  man  nearly  six  feet 


110   RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

high,  with  a  back  so  flat  and  a  head  so  well  poised  that  when 
he  drew  himself  up  to  take  a  more  distant  survey  of  his  work, 
he  had  the  air  of  a  soldier  standing  at  ease.  The  sleeve  rolled  up 
above  the  elbow  showed  an  arm  that  was  likely  to  win  the  prize 
for  feats  of  strength;  yet  the  long  supple  hand,  with  its  broad 
finger-tips,  looked  ready  for  works  of  skill.  In  his  tall  stal- 
wartness  Adam  Bede  was  a  Saxon,  and  justified  the  name;  but 
the  jet-black  hair,  made  the  more  noticeable  by  its  contrast 
with  the  light  paper  cap,  and  the  keen  glance  of  the  dark  eyes 
that  shone  from  under  strongly  marked,  prominent  and  mobile 
eyebrows,  indicated  a  mixture  of  Celtic  blood.  The  face  was 
large  and  roughly  hewn,  and  when  in  repose  had  no  other 
beauty  than  such  as  belongs  to  an  expression  of  good-humored 
honest  intelligence.1 

In  the  second  passage  (6)  we  have  no  longer  the  object- 
ive picture  of  the  stalwart  young  workingman;  rather 
we  penetrate  the  veil  of  Adam's  personality,  and  see  him 
as  he  is  —  deferential  to  his  superiors  in  rank,  but  ever 
thoroughly  self-respecting,  and  ready,  if  need  be,  to 
abide  by  his  own  judgment.  We  have  internal  portrait- 
ure, the  exposition  of  an  individuality. 

(b)  Adam,  I  confess,  was  very  susceptible  to  the  influence  of 
rank,  and  quite  ready  to  give  an  extra  amount  of  respect  to 
every  one  who  had  more  advantages  than  himself,  not  being  a 
philosopher,  or  a  proletaire  with  democratic  ideas,  but  simply  a 
stout-limbed  carpenter  with  a  large  fund  of  reverence  in  his 
nature,  which  inclined  him  to  admit  all  established  claims  unless 
he  saw  very  clear  grounds  for  questioning  them.  He  had  no 
theories  about  setting  the  world  to  rights,  but  he  saw  there  was 
a  great  deal  of  damage  done  by  building  with  ill-seasoned  tim- 
ber —  by  ignorant  men  in  fine  clothes  making  plans  for  out- 
houses and  workshops  and  the  like,  without  knowing  the  bear- 
ings of  things  —  by  slovenly  joiners'  work,  and  by  hasty  con- 
tracts that  could  never  be  fulfilled  without  ruining  somebody; 

1  Chap.  i. 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  111 

and  he  resolved,  for  his  part,  to  set  his  face  against  such  doings. 
On  these  points  he  would  have  maintained  his  opinion  against 
the  largest  landed  proprietor^  Loamshire  or  Stonyshire  either; 
but  he  felt  that  beyond  these  it  would  be  better  for  him  to  defer 
to  people  who  were  more  knowing  than  himself.  He  saw  as 
plainly  as  possible  how  ill  the  woods  on  the  estate  were  man- 
aged, and  the  shameful  state  of  the  farm-buildings;  and  if  old 
Squire  Donnithorne  had  asked  him  the  effect  of  this  misman- 
agement, he  would  have  spoken  his  opinion  without  flinching, 
but  the  influence  to  a  respectful  demeanor  towards  a  "gentle- 
man" would  have  been  strong  within  him  all  the  while.  The 
word  "gentleman"  had  a  spell  for  Adam,  and,  as  he  often  said, 
he  "couldn't  abide  a  fellow  who  thought  he  made  himself  fine 
by  being  coxy  to  his  betters."  I  must  remind  you  again  that 
Adam  had  the  blood  of  the  peasant  in  his  veins,  and  that  since 
he  was  in  liis  prime  half  a  century  ago,  you  must  expect  some 
of  his  characteristics  to  be  obsolete.1 

It  is  evident,  then,  that  in  the  sense  of  "personage" 
the  word  "character"  in  narrative  writing  is  more  super- 
ficial and  external  than  when  used  in  the  sense  of  "per- 
sonality." As  mere  personages,  the  actors  serve  much 
the  same  purpose  as  does  setting,  in  that  they  are  auxil- 
iary to  the  action,  and  do  not  arouse  interest  in  and  of 
themselves.  This  becomes  clear  if  one  examines  an  ex- 
treme case  of  objective  narration  like  Robinson  Crusoe. 
If  from  this  story  of  adventure  we  could  subtract  every- 
thing that  elucidates  Crusoe's  individuality,  everything 
that  differentiates  him  as  an  emotional,  thinking  unit 
from  the  rest  of  humankind,  the  volume  of  the  book 
would  not  be  essentially  diminished.  Our  main  interest 
lies  in  his  escape  from  the  Moors,  in  the  salvage  of  neces- 
saries from  the  wreck,  in  the  construction  of  the  "castle," 
in  the  rescue  of  Friday  from  the  cannibals,  etc.  We  are 

1  Chap.  xvi. 


112    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

stirred  by  what  Crusoe  does.  In  contrast  with  this,  how- 
ever, were  one  to  dissect  out  from  Meredith's  The  Egoist 
all  those  passages  that  by  subtile  analysis  expound  the 
character  of  Sir  Willoughby  Patterne,  the  residue  would 
be  surprisingly  small,  for  the  element  of  actual  adventure 
in  this  novel  is  scant  indeed.  The  reader  is  interested 
not  so  much  in  wiat  Sir  Willoughby  does  as  in  what 
he  is. 

Briefer  illustration  of  the  same  difference  would  be 
found  by  comparing  a  short-story  like  Poe's  The  Gold 
Bug  with  Hawthorne's  The  Great  Stone  Face.  In  the  one 
case,  Legrand,  Jupiter,  and  the  supposed  narrator  are  of 
no  consequence,  save  as  necessary  adjuncts  to  an  action 
of  absorbing  interest.  But  in  Hawthorne's  narrative, 
Gathergold,  Stony  Phiz,  and  old  Blood-and-Thunder 
serve  the  sole  purpose  of  contributing  to  the  elabora- 
tion of  Ernest's  personality,  —  the  main  concern  of  the 
narrative. 

Between  these  two  extremes  lies  the  great  part  of 
narrative  writing.  While  many  novels,  stories,  and  nar- 
rative sketches  are  written  primarily  to  present  in  enter- 
taining manner  some  occurrence  or  transaction,  yet  the 
human  element  will  creep  in,  until  often  it  is  difficult  to 
say  which  is  more  essential,  the  sequence  of  details  — 
wherein  the  human  element  is  purely  adventitious  —  or 
personality  for  its  own  sake.  What  gives  The  Outcasts 
of  Poker  Flat  its  value?  Is  it  the  originality  of  narrative 
detail  in  which  Oakhurst,  Mother  Shipton,  and  "The 
Duchess"  are  mere  personages?  Or  is  it  the  delineation 
of  these  very  personages  as  individuals,  human  in  their 
appeal?  The  tendency  of  narrative  fiction  has  been  dis- 
tinctly toward  increased  elaboration  of  the  character 
element.  The  early  romances  dealt  more  exclusively 
with  incidents;  writing  of  them  Professor  Home  says:  — 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  113 

Writers  of  romance  made  their  heroes  all  alike  and  their  old 
men  all  alike.  ...  As  to  character  development,  the  change 
caused  in  the  person  by  the  experiences  undergone  in  the  tale, 
it  was  still  wholly  unconsidered.1 

The  modern  novel,  on  the  other  hand,  concerns  itself 
more  and  more  with  psychological  problems,  with  the 
personality  of  the  actors.  Scott  and  Stevenson  will  of 
course  always  be  popular,  nevertheless  George  Eliot  and 
George  Meredith  are  more  truly  representative  of  the 
trend  of  modern  imaginative  narrative  than  are  the 
authors  of  Kenilworth  and  Treasure  Island. 

Outside  of  fiction,  narrative  writing  will  verge  toward 
the  one  or  the  other  method,  as  the  subject  ranges  from 
the  chronicle  of  historic  events  to  the  interpretative  bi- 
ography. In  the  history  of  a  nation  or  of  a  period  the 
main  concern  of  the  narrator  is  to  present  the  successive 
data  that  distinguish  the  era  under  consideration.  Yet 
even  in  the  setting  forth  of  these  data  it  is  often  inevi- 
table that  he  present  the  individuality  of  the  men  who 
have  shaped  national  destiny.  The  character  of  a  Wash- 
ington, of  a  Napoleon,  of  a  Cromwell,  is  so  essentially 
interwoven  with  the  great  events  of  his  time  that  it 
is  almost  impossible  to  conceive  of  him  as  a  mere  doer  of 
deeds.  Of  course  in  biographic  writing  the  very  charac- 
ter of  the  discourse  demands  the  exposition  of  person- 
ality. The  writer  will  not  only  give  his  own  interpreta- 
tion of  his  hero  as  an  individual,  but  he  will  know  that 
the  events  chronicled  are  subordinate  in  interest  to  that 
personality. 

1  Home's  The  Technique  of  the  Novel.  By  permission  of  Harper  and 
Brothers.  Copyright,  1908,  -by  Harper  and  Brothers. 


114    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

DIRECT  CHARACTERIZATION 

& 
Portrayal  of  character  in  the  sense  of  personality,  in 

that  it  deals  with  the  abstract,  differs  entirely  from  the 
presentation  of  a  personage  and  from  setting,  which  have 
to  do  with  the  concrete.  The  presentation  of  that  im- 
palpable, abstract  thing  that  we  call  individuality  may 
be  accomplished  in  either  of  two  ways,  the  cjirect  or  the 
indirect.  In  the  direct  method  of  characterization  the 
writer  uses  exposition,  and  presents  the  various  phases 
of  his  subject  with  all  the  exactness  that  would  attend 
the  definition  of  a  term.  For  the  time  being,  he  is  no  longer 
the  narrator;  he  becomes  the  teacher.  In  The  Scarlet  Letter 
for  example,  one  frequently  finds  paragraphs  like  the 
following,  which  sets  forth  the  character  of  Hester 
Prynne :  — 

Much  of  the  marble  coldness  of  Hester's  impression  was  to 
be  attributed  to  the  circumstance  that  her  life  had  turned,  in 
great  measure,  from  passion  and  feeling  to  thought.  Standing 
alone  in  the  world  —  alone,  as  to  any  dependence  on  society, 
and  with  little  Pearl  to  be  guided  and  protected  —  alone,  and 
hopeless  of  retrieving  her  position,  even  had  she  not  scorned 
to  consider  it  desirable  —  she  cast  away  the  fragments  of  a 
broken  chain.  The  world's  law  was  no  law  to  her  mind.  It  was 
an  age  in  which  the  human  intellect,  newly  emancipated,  had 
taken  a  more  active  and  a  wider  range  than  for  many  centuries 
before.  Men  of  the  world  had  overthrown  nobles  and  kings. 
Men  bolder  than  these  had  overthrown  and  rearranged  —  not 
actually,  but  within  the  sphere  of  theory,  which  was  their  most 
real  abode  —  the  whole  system  of  ancient  prejudice,  where- 
with was  linked  much  of  ancient  principle.  Hester  Prynne 
imbibed  this  spirit.  She  assumed  a  freedom  of  speculation, 
then  common  enough  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic,  but 
which  our  forefathers,  had  they  known  it,  would  have  held  to 
be  a  deadlier  crime  than  that  stigmatized  by  the  scarlet  letter. 


THE  AGENT  OF  T^HE  ACTION  115 

In  her  lonesome  cottage,  by  the  sea-shore,  thoughts  visitej^er 
such  as  dared  to  enter  no  other  dwelling  in  New  En£pd; 
shadowy  guests,  that  would  have  been  as  perilous  as  demons  to 
their  entertainer,  could  they  have  been  seen  so  much  as  knock- 
ing at  her  door. 

The  dangers  attendant  upon  this  direct,  or  abstract, 
method  of  characterization,  whether  in  the  chronicle  of 
fact  or  in  fiction,  are  apparent  at  a  glance.  Essentially 
expository  in  nature,  it  is  not  structurally  of  a  piece  with 
the  writing  of  which  it  is  a  part,  and  is  likely,  therefore, 
to  introduce  an  atmosphere  of  stiffness,  of  artificiality, 
that  may  prove  fatal  to  unity  of  tone  as  well  as  to  gen- 
eral coherence  and  to  interest.  This  is  especially  true  if 
the  exposition  be  carried  to  excess,  as  may  easily  be  done 
by  a  writer  endowed,  like  George  Eliot,  with  a  taste  for 
analytical  and  logical  methods.  Writers  of  this  order, 
exponents  of  the  scientific  tendencies  characteristic  of 
the  Victorian  age,  have  given  to  recent  fiction  a  distinctly 
analytical  cast. 

A  modification  of  the  direct  method  of  characteriza- 
tion —  a  modification  in  form  rather  than  in  substance  — 
is  seen  when  the  writer,  instead  of  appearing  in  person  to 
expound  the  personality  of  his  hero,  puts  the  exposition 
into  the  mouth  of  some  actor  in  the  story,  —  either  the 
hero  himself  or  some  subordinate  personage.  Under  these 
conditions  the  exposition  seems  to  arise  more  naturally 
from  the  narrative.  For  example,  in  Adam  Bede,  Dinah 
Morris  is  made  to  expound  her  own  character  when,  in 
conversation  with  Mr.  Irwine,  in  reply  to  the  question 
how  she  first  came  to  think  of  preaching,  she  replies:  - 

"  Indeed,  sir,  I  did  n  't  think  of  it  at  all  —  I  'd  been  used  from 
the  time  I  was  sixteen  to  talk  to  the  little  children,  and  teach 
them,  and  sometimes  I  had  had  my  heart  enlarged  to  speak  in 


116    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

ch^s,  and  was  much  drawn  out  in  prayer  with  the  sick.  But  I 
had  felt  no  call  to  preach;  for  when  I  'm  not  greatly  wrought 
upon,  I  'm  too  much  given  to  sit  silent  all  day  long  with  the 
thought  of  God  overflowing  my  soul  —  as  the  pebbles  lie 
bathed  in  the  Willow  Brook.  For  thoughts  are  so  great  — 
are  n't  they,  sir?  They  seem  to  lie  upon  us  like  a  deep  flood; 
and  it's  my  besetment  to  forget  where  I  am  and  everything 
about  me,  and  lose  myself  in  thoughts  that  I  could  give  no  ac- 
count of,  for  I  could  neither  make  a  beginning  nor  ending  of 
them  in  words.  That  was  my  way  as  long  as  I  can  remember; 
but  sometimes  it  seemed  as  if  speech  came  to  me  without  any 
will  of  my  own,  and  words  were  given  to  me  that  came  out  as 
the  tears  come,  because  our  hearts  are  full  and  we  can't  help  it. 
And  those  were  always  times  of  great  blessing,  though  I  had 
never  thought  it  could  be  so  with  me  before  a  congregation  of 
people.  But,  sir,  we  are  led  on,  like  the  little  children,  by  a  way 
that  we  know  not.  I  was  called  to  preach  quite  suddenly,  and 
since  then  I  have  never  been  left  in  doubt  about  the  work  that 
was  laid  upon  me." 

This  is,  however,  but  a  shading  of  the  frankly  direct 
method,  and  is  open  to  the  rhetorical  dangers  already 
indicated,  although  in  slightly  less  degree.  It  is,  further- 
more, subject  to  the  danger  of  causing  the  personage 
through  whom  the  exposition  is  presented  to  become  dull 
and  artificial. 


INDIRECT  CHARACTERIZATION 

Direct,  or  abstract,  characterization  is  of  the  simplest 
order  and  easily  accomplished,  for  nothing  is  less  difficult 
than  to  bring  the  story  to  a  halt  for  a  time  and  to  fill 
paragraph  after  paragraph  with  expository  comment 
upon  the  characters  that  participate  in  the  action.  But 
this  is  not  the  method  of  actual  experience.  One  does 
not  form  judgment  of  a  friend,  of  an  acquaintance, 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  117 

of  some  great  personage,  from  formal  generalizations  as 
to  his  distinctive  traits,  or  altogether  from  what  others 
may  say  of  him,  or  from  what  he  says  of  himself.  Rather 
are  men  known  by  their  acts,  by  the  external  expression 
of  the  soul  within.  We  may  read  in  abstract  terms  that 
Queen  Elizabeth  possessed  the  "triviality  of  Anne 
Boleyn"  and  "the  wilfulness  of  Henry,"  together  with 
"a  nature  as  hard  as  steel  and  a  temper  purely  intellect- 
ual " ;  but  her  statesmen  formulated  no  such  abstrac- 
tions. The  Queen  known  to  them  was  the  woman  who 
"played  with  her  rings  that  her  courtiers  might  note  the 
delicacy  of  her  hands,"  who  "danced  a  coranto  that  the 
French  ambassador  hidden  dexterously  behind  a  screen 
might  report  her  sprightliness  to  his  master,"  who  "for 
fifty  years  hoodwinked  and  outwitted  every  statesman 
in  Europe  by  her  diplomacy  and  shrewd  intrigue." 
Similarly  in  narrative  writing,  the  natural  method  of 
characterization  is  that  whereby  individuality  is  indi-  - 
rectly  set  forth  by  words,  by  acts,  or  by  personal  char- 
acteristics of  gesture  and  speech.  There  is  hardly  a 
narrative,  from  the  simplest  to  the  most  complex,  that 
does  not  illustrate  this  indirect,  or  concrete,  method  of 
delineation.  A  simple  item  to  the  effect  that  "a  mob 
about  to  lynch  a  horse-thief  gave  him  a  good  drink  of 
whiskey  before  stringing  him  up"  suggests  to  the  author 
of  The  American  Commonwealth  a  distinct  trait  in  the 
American  character.  The  simple  outline  of  the  story  of 
the  Prodigal  Son  has  supplied  homiletic  ammunition  to 
generations  of  sermon  writers,  until,  were  all  the  char- 
acterizations of  the  father,  the  prodigal,  and  the  older 
brother  collated,  they  would  constitute  a  library  of  psy- 
chologic interpretation.  In  Bret  Harte's  The  Outcasts  of 
Poker  Flat  the  reader  feels  vividly  the  delicacy  of  John 
Oakhurst,  a  gambler  and  sharper;  the  fundamental  wo- 


118    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

manliness  of  "The  Duchess,"  an  ostracized  prostitute; 
the  boyish  simplicity  and  enthusiasm  of  "The  Innocent " ; 
but  the  story  contains  no  paragraphs  of  extended  analyt- 
ical character  dissection.  The  Dolly  Dialogues  of  Anthony 
Hope,  in  keeping  with  their  title,  present  nothing  but  dia- 
logue, and  yet  from  them  one  obtains  a  fairly  clear  con- 
ception of  the  personality  of  Miss  Foster  and  of  Lady 
Mickleham.  The  extended  forms  of  narrative  literature 
offer  endless  illustrations  of  the  principle  that  personal- 
ity is  portrayed  by  all  forms  of  external  manifestation. 
It  is  interesting  to  note  how  in  a  passage  like  the  follow- 
ing from  Macaulay's  History  of  England,  along  with  the 
direct  characterization,  there  is  considerable  of  the  indi- 
rect method.  The  final  estimate  of  Clarendon  is  based, 
in  no  small  degree,  upon  such  premises  as  his  arrogance, 
his  ostentation,  his  attitude  on  the  religious  and  political 
matters  of  his  own  time,  —  all  of  these  data  being  viewed 
as  external  manifestations  of  the  personality  within:  — 

The  minister's  virtues  and  vices  alike  contributed  to  his 
ruin.  He  was  the  ostensible  head  of  the  administration,  and 
was  therefore  held  responsible  even  for  those  acts  which  he  had 
strongly  but  vainly  opposed  in  Council.  He  was  regarded  by 
the  Puritans,  and  by  all  who  pitied  him,  as  an  implacable 
bigot,  a  second  Laud,  with  much  more  than  Laud's  under- 
standing. He  had  on  all  occasions  maintained  that  the  Act  of 
Indemnity  ought  to  be  strictly  observed;  and  this  part  of  his 
conduct,  though  highly  honorable  to  him,  made  him  hateful  to 
all  those  Royalists  who  wished  to  repair  their  ruined  fortunes 
by  suing  the  Roundheads  for  damages  and  mesne  profits.  The 
Presbyterians  of  Scotland  attributed  to  him  the  downfall  of 
their  Church.  The  Papists  of  Ireland  attributed  to  him  the  loss 
of  their  lands.  As  father  of  the  Duchess  of  York,  he  had  an  ob- 
vious motive  for  wishing  that  there  might  be  a  barren  queen; 
and  he  was  therefore  suspected  of  having  purposely  recom- 
mended one.  The  sale  of  Dunkirk  was  justly  imputed  to  him. 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  119, 

For  the  war  with  Holland,  he  was,  with  less  justice,  held  ac- 
countable. His  hot  temper,  his  arrogant  deportment,  the  in- 
delicate eagerness  with  which  he  grasped  at  riches,  the  ostenta- 
tion with  which  he  squandered  them,  his  picture-gallery,  filled 
with  masterpieces  of  Vandyke  which  had  once  been  the  pro- 
perty of  ruined  Cavaliers,  his  palace,  which  reared  its  long  and 
stately  front  right  opposite  to  the  humbler  residence  of  our 
kings,  drew  on  him  much  deserved,  and  some  undeserved,  cen- 
sure. ...  On  the  vices  of  the  young  and  gay  he  looked  with 
an  aversion  almost  as  bitter  and  contemptuous  as  that  which 
he  felt  for  the  theological  errors  of  the  sectaries.  He  missed  no 
opportunity  of  showing  his  scorn  of  the  mimics,  revellers,  and 
courtesans  who  crowded  the  palace;  and  the  admonitions 
which  he  addressed  to  the  King  himself  were  very  sharp,  and, 
what  Charles  disliked  still  more,  very  long.  Scarcely  any  voice 
was  raised  in  favor  of  a  minister  loaded  with  the  double  odium 
of  faults  which  roused  the  fury  of  the  people,  and  of  virtues 
which  annoyed  and  importuned  the  sovereign. 

In  considering  these  various  methods  of  indirect  char- 
acterization, we  may,  for  convenience,  class  them  under 
(a)  action,  —  that  is,  things  done;  (6)  personal  pecul- 
iarities attendant  upon  action,  such  as  speech,  gesture, 
etc.;  and  (c)  environment. 

a.  Characterization  by  Action 

No  estimate  of  character  is  more  common,  and  per- 
haps in  the  end  more  accurate,  than  that  reached 
through  the  acts  in  which  personality  manifests  itself. 
In  literature  this  method  of  characterization  is  effective 
because  it  is  natural,  and,  furthermore,  because  it  offers 
to  the  reader  an  opportunity  of  exercising  his  own  judg- 
ment, of  becoming  an  interpreter.  For  this  there  is  no 
opportunity  by  the  direct,  or  expository,  method ;  for  here 
the  conclusion  has  already  been  reached  and  is  merely  i- 
registered  for  reference.  A  writer  of  historical  narrative 


,120    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

may  say  abstractly  of  Elizabeth  that  "she  loved  gaiety 
and  laughter  and  wit;  a  happy  retort  or  a  finished  com- 
pliment never  failed  to  win  her  favour,"  and  comprehen- 
sion of  the  meaning  is  the  only  mental  act  demanded  of 
the  reader;  clearness  of  expression  is  the  principal  rhe- 
torical requisite.  When,  however,  in  Kenilworth  we 
read  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's  success  with  the  Queen 
and  of  the  painful  failures  of  Tressilian  and  Blount  to 
please  their  royal  mistress,  we  not  only  understand 
what  we  read,  but,  in  addition,  we  interpret,  we  read 
character  into  the  various  episodes,  and  we  come  to  the 
same  conclusion  that  the  historian  or  the  biographer 
would  have  stated  in  abstract  terms. 

It  is  also  to  be  noted  that  the  exposition  of  character 
through  acts  is  not  only  natural  and  clear,  but  is  often 
more  dramatic  than  when  presented  directly.  An  appeal 
to  the  eye,  to  the  ear,  comes  with  greater  effect  than  does 
the  most  carefully  elaborated  and  coherent  discourse 
addressed  to  the  logical  faculties.  In  Adam  Bede,  for 
instance,  George  Eliot  often  generalizes  in  the  most  ab- 
stract terms,  as  in  the  following  expository  passage :  — 

Possibly  you  think  that  Adam  was  not  at  all  sagacious  in  his 
interpretations,  and  that  it  was  altogether  extremely  unbe- 
coming in  a  sensible  man  to  behave  as  he  did  —  falling  in  love 
with  a  girl  who  really  had  nothing  more  than  her  beauty  to 
recommend  her,  attributing  imaginary  virtues  to  her,  and  even 
condescending  to  cleave  to  her  after  she  had  fallen  in  love  with 
another  man,  waiting  for  her  kind  looks  as  a  patient  trembling 
dog  waits  for  his  master's  eye  to  be  turned  upon  him.  But  in 
so  complex  a  thing  as  human  nature,  we  must  consider,  it  is 
hard  to  find  rules  without  exceptions.  Of  course,  I  know  that, 
as  a  rule,  sensible  men  fall  in  love  with  the  most  sensible  women 
of  their  acquaintance,  see  through  all  the  pretty  deceits  of  co- 
quettish beauty,  never  imagine  themselves  loved  when  they 
are  not  loved,  cease  loving  on  all  proper  occasions,  and  marry 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  121 

the  woman  most  fitted  for  them  in  every  respect  —  indeed,  so 
as  to  compel  the  approbation  of  all  the  maiden  ladies  in  their 
neighborhood.  But  even  to  this  rule  an  exception  will  occur 
now  and  then  in  the  lapse  of  centuries,  and  my  friend  Adam 
was  one.  For  my  own  part,  however,  I  respect  him  none  the 
less:  nay,  I  think  the  deep  love  he  had  for  that  sweet,  rounded, 
blossom-like,  dark-eyed  Hetty,  of  whose  inward  self  he  was 
really  very  ignorant,  came  out  of  the  very  strength  of  his  na- 
ture, and  was  not  out  of  any  inconsistent  weakness.  Is  it  any 
weakness,  pray,  to  be  wrought  on  by  exquisite  music?  —  to 
feel  its  wondrous  harmonies  searching  the  subtlest  windings  of 
your  soul,  the  delicate  fibres  of  life  where  no  memory  can  pene- 
trate, and  binding  together  your  whole  being  past  and  present 
in  one  unspeakable  vibration:  melting  you  in  one  moment  with 
all  the  tenderness,  all  the  love  that  has  been  scattered  through 
the  toilsome  years,  concentrating  in  one  emotion  of  heroic 
courage  or  resignation  all  the  hard-learnt  lessons  of  self-re- 
nouncing sympathy,  blending  your  present  joy  with  past  sor- 
row, and  your  present  sorrow  with  all  your  past  joy?  If  not, 
then  neither  is  it  a  weakness  to  be  so  wrought  upon  by  the  ex- 
quisite curves  of  a  woman's  cheek  and  neck  and  arms,  by  the 
liquid  depths  of  her  beseeching  eyes,  or  the  sweet  childish  pout 
of  her  lips.  For  the  beauty  of  a  lovely  woman  is  like  music: 
what  can  one  say  more?  Beauty  has  an  expression  beyond  and 
far  above  the  one  woman's  soul  that  it  clothes,  as  the  words  of 
genius  have  a  wider  meaning  than  the  thought  that  prompted 
them:  it  is  more  than  a  woman's  love  that  moves  us  in  a  wo- 
man's eyes  —  it  seems  to  be  a  far-off  mighty  love  that  has 
come  near  to  us,  and  made  speech  for  itself  there;  the  rounded 
neck,  the  dimpled  arm,  move  us  by  something  more  than  their 
prettiness  —  by  their  close  kinship  with  all  we  have  known  of 
tenderness  and  peace.  The  noblest  natures  see  the  most  of  this 
impersonal  expression  in  beauty  (it  is  needless  to  say  that  there 
are  gentlemen  with  whiskers  dyed  and  undyed  who  see  none  of 
it  whatever),  and  for  this  reason,  the  noblest  nature  is  often 
the  most  blinded  to  the  character  of  the  one  woman's  soul  that 
the  beauty  clothes.  Whence,  I  fear,  the  tragedy  of  human  life 


122    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION. 

is  likely  to  continue  for  a  long  time  to  come,  in  spite  of  mental 
philosophers  who  are  ready  with  the  best  receipts  for  avoiding 
all  mistakes  of  the  kind. 

Our  good  Adam  had  no  fine  words  into  which  he  could  put 
his  feeling  for  Hetty;  he  could  not  disguise  mystery  in  this  way 
with  the  appearance  of  knowledge;  he  called  his  love  frankly  a 
mystery,  as  you  have  heard  him.  He  only  knew  that  the  sight 
and  memory  of  her  moved  him  deeply,  touching  the  spring  of 
all  love  and  tenderness,  all  faith  and  courage  within  him.  How 
could  he  imagine  narrowness,  selfishness,  hardness  in  her?  He 
created  the  mind  he  believed  in  out  of  his  own,  which  v/as 
large,  unselfish,  tender. 

Here  is  certainly  careful  exposition  of  the  character  of 
Adam's  love  for  Hetty,  expressed  with  no  little  analyti- 
cal detail.  But  the  average  reader  would  arrive  at  a 
fuller  conception  and  appreciation  of  the  strgjigjaaaji's 
passion  for  the  weak  girl  by  following  Adam's  acts  and 
words  from  the  time  when  his  love  first  took  form  until 
it  received  its  death-wound  with  Hetty's  fall.  Adam's 
visits  to  the  Hall  Farm,  his  hesitation,  his  walks  through 
the  fields,  his  discussions  of  love  with  Bartle  Massey, 
his  battle  with  Arthur,  his  utter  prostration  at  the  news 
of  the  child-murder,  the  faithful  attendance  at  Stoniton 
jail  —  all  these  visible  details  go  farther  to  reveal  the 
true  nature  of  Adam's  love  than  do  all  the  psychologic 
dissertations  of  the  author.  In  contrast  to  the  foregoing, 
the  following  concrete  picture  of  Adam's  abstraction  and 
loss  of  initiative  impulse  presents  with  unquestionably 
greater  effectiveness  the  alteration  that  took  place  in 
him  after  Hetty's  imprisonment :  — 

An  upper  room  in  a  dull  Stoniton  street,  with  two  beds  in  it 
—  one  laid  on  the  floor.  It  is  ten  o'clock  on  Thursday  night, 
and  the  dark  wall  opposite  the  window  shuts  out  the  moon- 
light that  might  have  struggled  with  the  light  of  the  one  dip 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  123 

candle  by  which  Bartle  Massey  is  pretending  to  read,  while  he 
is  really  looking  over  his  spectacles  at  Adam  Bede,  seated  near 
the  dark  window. 

You  would  hardly  have  known  it  was  Adam  without  being 
told.  His  face  had  got  thinner  this  last  week :  he  has  the  sunken 
eyes,  the  neglected  beard  of  a  man  just  risen  from  a  sick-bed. 
His  heavy  black  hair  hangs  over  his  forehead,  and  there  is  no 
active  impulse  in  him  which  inclines  him  to  push  it  off,  that  he 
may  be  more  awake  to  what  is  around  him.  He  has  one  arm 
over  the  back  of  the  chair,  and  he  seems  to  be  looking  down  at 
his  clasped  hands. 

A  striking  illustration  of  the  vividness  secured  by  con- 
crete presentation  of  character  is  to  be  found  in  the  open- 
ing chapter  of  Far  From  the  Madding  Crowd,  where 
Bathsheba  Everdene  —  not  unlike  Hetty  in  her  love  of 
self — indulges  in  action  that  reveals  her  frank  admira- 
tion of  herself  as  a  "fair  product  of  Nature  in  the  femi- 
nine kind."  Certainly  a  more  vivid  conception  of  the 
heroine's  personality  is  secured  from  witnessing  with  Ga- 
briel Oak  this  pantomime  by  the  roadside  than  could  be 
derived  from  a  series  of  the  abstractions  in  which  the 
author  frequently  indulges. 

An  element  of  narrative  coherence  would  seem  to  re- 
sult from  this  method  of  presenting  character  through 
acts;  for  while  personality  is  in  the  process  of  being  ex- 
pounded, the  chronicling  of  the  events  that  constitute  the 
main  thread  need  not  be  interrupted.  The  two  processes 
become  one.  There  is  none  of  the  interruption,  and  of  the 
consequent  incoherence,  that  is  likely  to  result  when 
direct  characterization  is  interpolated  and  the  succession 
of  events,  for  the  time  being,  is  brought  to  a  full  stop. 

b.  Characterization  by  Speech,  etc. 

The  second  method  of  indirect  characterization  has  to 
do  with  personal  mannerisms,  including  individualities 


124    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

of  gesture,  speech,  and  the  like  attendant  upon  acts. 
The  mere  presentation  of  personal  oddities  in  manner 
and  speech  is,  in  one  sense,  but  journeyman's  work;  the 
hand  of  the  master  becomes  evident  as  the  delineation 
of  these  externals  is  attended  by  equal  clearness  of  in- 
ternal portraiture.  The  criticism  is  often  made  that 
Dickens's  creations  are  but  lay  figures,  such  as  we  see 
in  the  shop-windows  —  striking,  indeed,  highly  colored, 
and,  at  a  glance,  rather  accurate  representations,  but, 
on  close  examination,  lacking  in  reality;  that  Mr.  Carker 
is  all  teeth,  Mr.  Turveydrop  all  deportment.  And  per- 
haps nothing  better  illustrates  characters  that,  together 
with  all  their  oddities,  may  yet  be  human  than  to  place 
over  against  Carker  and  Turveydrop  Mr.  Pickwick, 
Sarah  Gamp,  or  Betsey  Trotwood,  —  not  necessarily 
that  these  represent  Dickens's  highest  attainment  in 
characterization,  but  that  they  are  in  marked  contrast 
to  caricatures  unvitalized  by  convincing  personality. 
Mr.  Pickwick,  to  be  sure,  is  usually  labeled  with  specta- 
cles and  black  gaiters;  Mrs.  Gamp  with  umbrella,  fra- 
grant breath,  and  allusions  to  Mrs.  Harris  of  ghostly 
memory;  Betsey  Trotwood  with  antipathy  to  donkeys: 
but  with  all  their  conventionalities  these  creations  are  so 
essentially  human  that  they  seem  far  more  real  than  the 
Carkers,  Turveydrops,  and  all  their  company. 

Amateurs  in  narrative  writing  should  observe  that,  if 
personal  characterization  —  the  portrayal  of  individu- 
ality —  be  their  purpose,  the  peculiarities  with  which 
they  endow  their  creations  must,  in  some  way,  contrib- 
ute to  that  portrayal.  Nothing  is  more  simple  than  to 
indicate  a  squint,  a  glib  tongue,  a  halting  gait,  ebullition 
of  spirits,  but  it  does  not  follow  that  we  shall  have  as  a 
result  a  Sampson  Brass,  an  Alfred  Jingle,  a  Quilp,  or  a 
Wilkins  Micawber.  Anything  remotely  approaching 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  125 

real  personality  may  still  be  lacking.  Mrs.  Nickleby 
and  her  prototype,  Miss  Bates,  in  Jane  Austen's 
Emma,  are,  from  one  point  of  view,  but  mere  imper- 
sonations of  incoherence  gone  mad,  yet  their  consist- 
ent fatuousness  is  almost  convincing,  and  many  a  reader 
feels  that  he  knows  Mrs.  Nickleby  as  well  as  he  does 
Florence  Dombey,  that  Miss  Bates  is  no  more  unreal 
than  is  Emma  Woodhouse  or  Harriet  Smith.  It  must  be 
admitted  that  the  two  cases  cited  from  Dickens  and 
Jane  Austen  are  extreme,  partaking  of  the  nature  of  cari- 
cature, but  there  is  nevertheless  a  structural  principle 
involved :  in  rendering  personage  presentation  objective 
and  distinct,  peculiarities  of  speech  and  dress  do  serve  a 
distinct  purpose;  but  in  character  portrayal  external 
peculiarities  must  constantly  be  relegated  to  the  cate- 
gory of  the  accidents  rather  than  the  essentials  of  indi- 
^viduality.  It  may  serve  to  objectify  our  conception  of 
Tommy  Traddles  to  know  that  his  hair  was  in  a  chronic 
state  of  ungovernable  stiffness,  or  of  Lady  Kew  to  know 
that  the  sharpness  of  her  tongue  was  dreaded  by  all  the 
Newcome  family;  but  the  stiff  hair  and  the  sharp  tongue 
are  not  the  essentials  that  arouse  a  sense  of  fellowship 
with  Traddles  or  of  wholesome  dread  for  the  aged  Coun- 
tess. 

The  effect  that  personal  peculiarities  may  have,  not 
only  in  focusing  our  mental  picture,  but  in  bringing  out 
and  intensifying  the  essential  self  of  a  character,  is  well 
illustrated  in  the  case  of  Major  Pendennis.  Pen's  uncle  is* 
as  clearly  portrayed  as  is  Mr.  Micawber  or  Mr.  Pecksniff, 
but  he  is,  in  addition,  more  human.  Even  the  enthusi- 
astic lover  of  David  Copperfield  or  of  Martin  Chuzzlewit 
is  compelled  to  admit -that  Micawber  and  Pecksniff ,  with 
all  their  convincingness,  belong  rather  to  the  world  of 
Dickens  than  to  the  everyday  life  of  Canterbury  or  of 


126    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

Salisbury.  But  with  Thackeray's  hero  it  is  different: 
characteristic  oddities  the  Major  has  in  abundance, 
—  his  thorough-going  regard  for  a  coronet,  his  niceties 
of  personal  appearance  and  deportment,  his  self-respect, 
his  blunt  honesty,  —  yet  with  them  all  he  is  no  wooden 
figure;  he  is  as  essentially  human  as  the  men  of  our  own 
personal  acquaintance.  Tags  of  identification  have  been 
made  to  blend  masterfully  in  with  a  realistic  personality. 
But  at  this  point  one  must  remember  that  characteriza- 
tion is  not  the  principal  end  of  narrative  writing,  and  that 
it  must  therefore  be  subordinated.  A  story  is  not  written 
for  the  mere  sake  of  expounding  character  anymore  than 
a  sermon  is  written  for  the  mere  purpose  of  exhibiting 
the  clergyman's  rich  voice  or  his  power  of  drawing  tears, 
valuable  as  may  be  these  persuasive  gifts.  Many  so- 
called  stories  in  recent  periodical  literature  —  especially 
of  the  undergraduate  variety  —  are  not  unlike  the  homi^ 
lies  that  the  Reverend  Charles  Honeyman  used  to  de- 
liver in  Lady  Whittlesea's  chapel:  they  are  composed 
with  an  eye  to  the  exploitation  of  the  writer's  proficiency 
rather  than  for  edification.  The  character  sketch  of 
course  has  its  place,  but  the  character  sketch  belongs  to 
the  realm  of  description  or  of  exposition,  as  the  case  may 
be.  Its  purpose  is  to  present  a  picture  or  to  make  clear  a 
conception,  —  not  to  set  in  order  the  details  that  con- 
stitute a  transaction.  In  strict  narrative,  then,  the  patois 
of  the  French  Canadian  or  the  dialect  of  the  plantation 
hand  serves  a  legitimate  purpose  when  the  guide  or  the 
negro  is  a  character  demanded  by  the  exigencies  of  the 
occurrence  in  hand.  For  example,  in  Two  Gentlemen  of 
Kentucky,  James  Lane  Allen  has  a  story  to  tell,  a  distinct 
train  of  occurrences,  and  the  actors  in  his  narrative  are 
Colonel  Romulus  Fields  and  his  old  negro  servant  Peter. 
In  order  to  present  the  pathos  of  decayed  gentility  and  of 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  127 

loyal  fidelity  there  is .  no  reason  why  the  author  should 
not  have  reverted  to  the  days  of  the  Roman  Republic  or 
to  the  civilization  of  Rameses,  had  he  so  desired ;  where- 
ever  he  might  find  an  environment  and  characters  that 
would  effectively  set  forth  the  motive  of  the  narrative, 
there  he  was  free  to  set  his  action.  But  for  the  particular 
series  of  events  that  he  wished  to  chronicle  in  his  narra- 
tive, the  old  Southern  gentleman  and  his  former  slave 
were  fitted  perfectly,  as  was  also  the  Kentucky  setting. 
All  combine  to  form  what  has  already  been  defined  as 
"atmosphere"  (p.  85). 

A  New  England  Nun  presents  excellent  illustration  of 
the  intimate  relation  that  exists  between  the  act  and  the 
character  adjusted  to  the  act.  The  note  that  the  author 
wishes  to  strike  is  contained  in  the  closing  paragraph: 
Louisa  Ellis's  deliberate  renunciation  of  her  birthright  — 
a  faithful  husband  and  assured  life-companionship  —  in 
exchange  for  the  isolation  of  the  cloistered  nun,  where,  in 
the  society  of  the  fluffy  canary  bird  and  the  rampageous 
Ceesar,  she  might  pass  her  days  sewing  linen  seams  and 
distilling  roses.  As  the  personality  best  suited  to  the  ex- 
position of  this  humble  preference  for  neatness  and  fidel- 
ity to  the  little  details  of  prim  housekeeping,  the  author 
selects  a  New  England  village  and  a  conventional  old 
maid.  Between  the  simple  action  of  the  story  and  the 
principal  agent  there  is  a  fitness  of  adjustment  that  re- 
sults in  remarkable  unity  of  effect.  If,  now,  this  story  were 
to  be  recast  so  that  instead  of  plain  Louisa  Ellis  we  should 
have  a  Genoese  noblewoman  of  historic  lineage,  residing 
in  her  ancestral  palace  on  the  Strada  Nuova,  the  loss  of 
effect  would  at  once  become  evident.  It  is  not  that  the 
conception  of  Genoese  nobility  is  essentially  inconsis- 
tent with  that  of  maiden  ladies  and  of  renunciation  of  all 
marital  responsibilities,  yet  the  reader  is  at  once  con- 


128    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

scious  of  an  incongruity  in  the  one  characterization  that 
does  not  offend  him  in  the  other.  The  narrative  carries 
conviction  and  satisfaction  when  the  reader  feels  that 
the  peculiarities  of  characterization  blend  with  the  nar- 
rative and  invigorate  it,  and  when  he  is  not  forced  into 
believing  that  the  narrative  exists  for  the  mere  sake  of 
setting  forth  oddities  of  characterization. 

With  the  amateur  the  method  is  often  quite  different. 
He  conceives  a  plot,  it  may  be,  and  then  proceeds  to 
work  out  his  characters  and  his  setting  with  more  re- 
gard to  their  elaboration  than  to  their  due  subordina- 
tion. The  pages  of  undergraduate  magazines  teem  with 
profane  sea-captains  and  cow-punchers,  incomprehen- 
sible Maine  guides  and  Mexican  half-breeds,  impossible 
Yankee  farmers  and  fishermen.  It  is  often  entirely  pos- 
sible that  the  scene  laid  in  Gloucester  might  be  trans- 
ferred to  the  wastes  of  the  alkali  deserts  by  simply  read- 
justing the  dialect  and  by  substituting  "Arizona  Bill" 
for  "Old  Cap'n  Jabez  Cook  of  Nantucket."  If,  however, 
one  tries  such  reorganization  with  the  stories  of  Thomas 
Nelson  Page  or  of  Margaret  Deland,  he  will  soon  under- 
stand the  significance  of  the  principle  that  peculiarities 
of  personal  characterization,  like  setting,  are  at  their 
best  when  they  form  an  essential  part  of  the  narrative 
in  its  entirety  and  intensify  the  dramatic  effect. 

The  following  crude  attempt  at  narrative  composition 
may  be  considered  an  extreme  illustration  of  what  has 
preceded :  — 

MARIE 

For  several  long  years  he  ha*d  loved  this  girl  with  a  burning 
passion.  For  almost  seven  years  she  had  been  indifferent  and 
cold.  How  responsive  she  had  seemed  during  those  first  few 
days  of  their  acquaintance!  But  how  soon  her  warmth  had 
turned  to  ice.  How  he  had  striven,  day  after  day,  to  revive 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  129 

that  ardor  which  she  had  seemed  to  possess  at  first,  but  —  in 
vain.  To-day  she  might  seem  on  the  point  of  softening  toward 
him.  How  his  hopes  would  rise.  To-morrow  she  would  freeze 
his  very  bones  by  her  haughty  aloofness.  Thus  it  had  been  for 
seven  long  years. 

And  what  was  the  cause  of  her  actions?  He  could  stand  it  no 
longer.  He  would  go  to  her  this  very  night  and  know.  One 
more  appeal  he  would  make.  If  she  were  sympathetic,  —  but 
he  could  not  hope  for  that. 

It  was  now  late  in  the  afternoon.  It  had  been  one  of  those 
chill  November  days  when  every  breath  of  air  seems  to  work 
its  way  into  the  very  marrow  of  one's  bones. 

How  his  heart  yearned.  If  she  accepted  him,  —  but  how 
could  he  expect  this  after  she  had  dismissed  him  so  cruelly  the 
night  before?  As  he  hastily  dressed,  every  nerve  in  his  body 
trembled  under  the  excitement  of  the  moment;  this  same 
thought  came  flashing  into  his  mind:  "If  she  accepts  me!"  and 
every  time  he  would  expel  it  with  the  words,  "But  she  will 
not!" 

And  what  would  he  do  if  she  did  not?  He  would  fly  to  the 
other  hemisphere.  He  would  leave  his  loved  France  forever, 
the  home  of  his  childhood.  He  would  hide  himself  in  some  ob- 
scure corner  of  the  earth. 

He  found  himself  on  the  great  stone  steps  leading  up  to  the 
house  where  his  loved  one  was.  Like  a  madman  he  sprang  up 
those  steps  and  dashed  into  the  old  French  mansion.  Not 
once  stopping  to  notice  that  the  hall  was  dark,  he  rushed  on 
through  the  house  shouting,  "I  want  Marie!" 

The  door  of  the  sitting  room  flew  open. 

There  in  the  doorway  stood  the  family  —  all  that  was  left  of 
the  old  line  —  mother,  son  about  ten  years  of  age,  and  Marie. 

The  man  stopped  short  before  the  terrified  inmates  of  the 
dwelling,  and  repeated  again  his  former  cry,  "I  want  Marie!" 

For  a  moment  no  one  stirred.  Then,  like  the  slender  stock 
of  wheat  which  sways  so  gracefully  in  the  tempest  or  the  gentle 
breeze,  so  Marie,  with  face  white  as  snow,  after  gently  mo- 
tioning to  her  two  companions  to  draw  back,  advanced  a  step. 


130    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

"What  do  you  wish,  Jean?"  was  the  calm  query,  as  she 
softly  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

"I  want  Marie,"  was  all  that  the  poor  man  could  utter. 

"But  you  can't  have  Marie,"  was  the  gentle  reply. 

"I  want  Marie.  I  must  have  Marie,"  wailed  the  frantic  man. 

"But  you  can  not  have  Marie,"  was  the  now  emphatic 
reply. 

The  man  stood  glaring  for  a  moment  before  him,  and  then, 
turning  without  a  word,  he  fled  from  the  house  into  total 
darkness. 

It  was  three  years  later.  In  front  of  a  little  brush  fire  sat 
an  old  man.  His  hair  was  white;  his  cheeks  were  sunken. 
The  marks  of  suffering  were  upon  his  face,  a  face  which  one 
could  readily  see  had  not  always  been  thus,  —  a  face  of 
sorrow. 

To-night,  as  he  sat  before  the  sputtering  fire,  comfortably 
leaning  back  against  a  tree,  smoking  his  old  clay  pipe,  this  man 
was  thinking  of  his  experiences  during  the  past  three  years. 
He  was  thinking  how  he  had  fled  from  that  house  on  that  terri- 
ble night,  when  she  had  spurned  him.  How,  without  even  go- 
ing to  his  apartment  he  had  boarded  a  steamer  and  was,  before 
midnight,  on  the  high  seas  going  —  he  knew  not  whither.  How, 
fifteen  days  later,  he  had  landed  in  New  York.  How  he  had 
roamed  about  for  a  time;  but  the  multitude  of  people  had 
driven  him  away.  He  could  not  stand  the  throng ;  he  must  have 
seclusion.  And  since  that  day  when  he  first  reached  the  woods, 
he  had  been  a  wanderer,  going  from  house  to  house,  yet  ever 
keeping  as  much  as  possible  in  the  forest. 

The  weather  was  warm.  The  first  fall  frosts  were  a  month 
away.  There  was  really  no  need  of  a  fire  save  for  company,  and 
what  a  friend  a  little  brushwood  fire  is. 

The  old  man  arose  from  his  restful  position  and  stood  before 
the  dying  embers  for  a  few  moments.  From  his  pocket  he  drew 
a  dingy  card  and  gazed  at  it  longingly  for  several  minutes; 
then,  replacing  it,  he  turned  slowly  and  entered  the  rude  log 
hut. 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  131 

After  spreading  himself  out  on  the  hard  floor  he  was  soon 
asleep. 

If  perchance  he  had  happened  to  peep  through  a  crack  in  the 
logs  he  might  have  seen  the  form  of  a  woman  not  forty  rods 
from  him,  stealing  silently  toward  the  hut.  And  if  he  had 
moved  his  hand  a  trifle  to  the  right,  as  it  lay  there  on  the  cold, 
damp  earth,  it  would  have  touched  something,  a  little  round 
ball,  very  soft  and  warm.  But  he  was  fast  asleep. 

The  next  morning  dawned  gray  and  cold.  It  was  too  cold  to 
snow. 

As  Jean  opened  his  eyes  he  made  an  attempt  to  rise.  What  a 
terrible  pain  shot  through  his  whole  body !  He  could  not  move 
a  muscle  without  agonizing  torture. 

As  he  lay  there,  motionless,  thoughts  began  to  come  into  his 
mind.  Remembrances  of  that  terrible  disappointment  more 
than  three  years  ago.  He  saw  before  him  the  vision  of  that 
beautiful  girl  in  France. 

The  man  was  crazy.  He  had  been  crazy  ever  since  his  great 
love  had  first  entered  his  soul.  He  had  been  crazed  on  that 
night  in  France.  No  sane  man  would  have  acted  as  he  did. 
But,  at  times,  he  could  think  rationally.  He  was  beginning  to 
think  rationally  now.  It  lasted  but  a  moment,  however;  the 
next  moment  he  was  wandering  again  but  — 

Something  crashed  in  the  side  of  the  rude  hut.  It  landed 
upon  his  breast.  It  was  the  mother  of  the  little  warm  ball  of  fur 
which  had  been  so  close  to  him  the  evening  before. 

The  man  uttered  a  groan  and  then  with  a  fierceness  almost 
equal  to  the  fierceness  of  the  animal  above  him,  he  cried,  "I 
want  Marie!" 

Two  days  later  the  good  woman  who  had  been  looking  for 
the  old  hermit  the  night  before  found  all  that  was  left  of  him, 
—  a  few  bones  and  some  tattered  garments. 

Without  going  too  deeply  into  this  harrowing  tale,  we 
may  perhaps  consider  one  or  two  matters  that  suggest 
themselves  in  connection  with  the  question  of  charac- 
terization. Why  should  the  hero  of  the  tragedy  be  por- 


132    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

trayed  as  a  Frenchman?  —  unless,  perhaps,  because  the 
writer  felt  that  the  " brainstorm"  under  which  his  prin- 
cipal actor  seemed  to  be  suffering  at  the  beginning  was 
peculiarly  Gallic  in  character.  Again  there  would  seem 
to  be  no  particular  reason  for  portraying  the  heroine  as 
"the  last  of  the  old  line  ";  there  is  nothing  in  her  action 
that  renders  such  portrayal  fitting.  With  equal  reason 
the  writer  might  have  described  Marie  as  a  Spanish  seno- 
rita  in  Barcelona,  an  Amsterdam  Gretchen  with  wooden 
shoes,  or  a  Whitechapel  greengrocer's  daughter.  Other 
similar  details  of  characterization  —  as  well  as  of  set- 
ting —  will  undoubtedly  suggest  themselves. 

Another  fault  that  is  common  in  amateurish  attempts 
at  characterization  by  means  of  action  is  the  failure  to 
present  sufficient  details.  The  picture  itself  is  indistinct, 
and  it  is  consequently  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to 
draw  any  inferences  from  the  picture.  If  the  exigencies 
of  the  action  are  best  served  by  making  the  heroine  a 
staid  New  England  spinster,  the  portrait  must  be  unmis- 
takable. If  the  little  touches  are  so  typical  and  at  the 
.same  time  so  individual  that  we  can  see  Louisa  Ellis  as 
she  "quilts  her  needle  carefully  in  her  work,  which  she 
folds  precisely,  and  lays  in  a  basket  with  her  thimble  and 
thread  and  scissors,"  then  the  action  serves  its  purpose. 
But  if  she  is  merely  labeled  "a  typical  old  maid,"  and 
we  can  neither  see  nor  know  her,  there  is  no  dramatic 
gain  save  as  the  reader's  imagination  may  supply  what 
the  writer's  picture  should  have  portrayed.  In  the  story 
that  has  already  been  cited  (pp.  128-31),  admitting  for 
the  sake  of  the  argument  that  there  is  some  artistic  rea- 
son for  making  Marie's  family  "the  last  of  the  old  line," 
we  must  see  them  clearly  and  distinctly  in  this  character, 
else  why  label  them  in  this  definite  fashion?  Adequate 
descriptive  data  are  necessary  in  such  cases,  not  only  for 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  133 

the  characterization  that  comes  through  action  but  for 
mere  distinctness  of  personage  portrayal. 

In  considering  speech  as  a  means  to  indirect  charac- 
terization, we  should  note  the  twofold  significance  of  the 
term  "speech,"  which  may  refer  either  to  the  mode  of 
utterance  or  to  the  spoken  matter  itself.  In  each  of  these 
we  have  a  natural  and  universally  recognized  manifesta- 
tion of  personality.  Words,  like  acts,  indicate  human 
nature.  Narrative  literature  abounds  in  instances  of  this 
principle.  The  action  of  Hamlet  without  the  famous 
soliloquies  is  indeed  "Hamlet  with  the  Prince  left  out." 
It  is  not  only  Colonel  Newcome  's  angry  departure  from 
the  Cave  of  Harmony  on  the  evening  when  we  first 
make  the  acquaintance  of  Clive  and  the  returned  Indian 
officer  that  gives  us  our  first  insight  into  his  personality; 
it  is  also  the  burning  indignation  that  breaks  forth  in 
his  denunciation  of  the  hoary  old  sinner  who  dares  sing 
a  ribald  ditty  in  the  presence  of  a  young  boy. 

In  presenting  what  is  actually  said,  a  fundamental 
requirement  is  absolute  harmony  between  the  matter  put 
into  the  mouth  of  the  character  and  the  general  exposi- 
tion of  that  character  as  a  personage.  If  there  is  to  be 
any  real  illusion,  any  real  conviction  as  to  reality  and 
naturalness,  the  reader  must  be  made  to  lose  himself  in 
the  scene.  He  must  accept  a  speaker's  words  as  the  nat- 
ural expression  to  be  expected  under  the  circumstances. 
Stiffness,  conventionality,  "talking  like  a  book,"  giving 
voice  to  thoughts  inconsistent  with  the  character  as  de- 
lineated, failure  to  preserve  every  turn  of  dialect  or 
manner  of  utterance,  —  all  these  are  fatal  to  effective 
delineation;  they  leave  the  reader's  imagination  uncon- 
vinced. This  is  apparent  in  many  of  the  stories  that 
were  popular  a  few  generations  ago.  It  is  not  so  much 
that  idioms  have  changed  as  that  the  writers  of  narra- 


134    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

live  to-day  pay  far  greater  attention  to  the  details  of 
realism.  No  one  nowadays  would  be  swept  away  by  the 
effectiveness  of  such  dialogue  as  the  following  from 
Sandford  and  Merton,  at  one  time  a  very  popular  work  of 
fiction,  —  dialogue  supposed  to  take  place  between  two 
little  boys  about  six  years  of  age.  One  of  them,  Tommy 
Merton,  has  been  chafing  his  half -frozen  limbs  before  a 
fire  that  the  other,  Harry  Sandford,  has  lighted,  and  he 
says  that  he  never  would  have  believed  that  a  few  dried 
sticks  could  have  been  of  so  much  consequence  to  him. 
The  conversation  then  proceeds  in  this  delightful  man- 
ner: — 

"Ah!"  answered  Harry,  "Master  Tommy,  you  have  been 
brought  up  in  such  a  manner  that  you  never  knew  what  it  was 
to  want  anything.  But  that  is  not  the  case  with  thousands  and 
millions  of  people.  I  have  seen  hundreds  of  poor  children  that 
have  neither  bread  to  eat,  fire  to  warm,  nor  clothes  to  cover 
them.  Only  think,  then,  what  a  disagreeable  situation  they 
must  be  in :  yet  they  are  so  accustomed  to  hardship  that  they 
do  not  cry  in  a  twelvemonth  as  much  as  you  have  done  within 
this  quarter  of  an  hour." 

"Why,"  answered  Tommy,  a  little  disconcerted  at  the  ob- 
servation of  his  crying,  "it  cannot  be  expected  that  gentlemen 
should  be  able  to  bear  all  these  inconveniences  as  well  as  the 
poor." 

"Why  not?"  answered  Harry:  "Is  not  a  gentleman  as  much 
a  man  as  the  poor  can  be?  And,  if  he  is  a  man,  should  he  not 
accustom  himself  to  support  every  thing  that  his  fellow-crea- 
tures do?" 

Tommy:  "That  is  very  true.  But  he  will  have  all  the  con- 
veniences of  life  provided  for  him,  victuals  to  eat,  a  good  warm 
bed,  and  fire  to  warm  him." 

Harry:  "But  he  is  not  sure  of  having  all  these  things  as  long 
as  he  lives.  Besides,  I  have  often  observed  the  gentlemen 
and  ladies  in  our  neighborhood,  riding  about  in  coaches,  and 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  135 

covered  from  head  to  foot,  yet  shaking  with  the  least  breath  of 
air  as  if  they  all  had  agues;  while  the  children  of  the  poor  run 
about  bare-footed  upon  the  ice,  and  divert  themselves  with 
making  snow-balls." 

And  thus  these  infant  sociologists  ingenuously  argue 
with  each  other  until  the  reader  becomes  well-nigh  des- 
perate with  the  utter  unnaturalness  of  the  dialogue. 

Of  course  even  the  "untutored  savage"  may  have  his 
rude  ideas  of  truths  that  have  perplexed  the  sages,  but  he 
will  not  discourse  of  subliminal  consciousness  nor  pro- 
nounce upon  the  ethical  values  of  pragmatism.  Defoe 
realized  this  principle  when  he  made  Friday  utter  his 
crude  thoughts  on  the  existence  of  God:  — 

During  the  long  time  that  Friday  had  now  been  with  me, 
and  that  he  began  to  speak  to  me,  and  understand  me,  I  was 
not  wanting  to  lay  a  foundation  of  religious  knowledge  in  his 
mind;  particularly  I  asked  him  one  time  who  made  him.  The 
poor  creature  did  not  understand  me  at  all,  but  thought  I  had 
asked  him  who  was  his  father:  but  I  took  it  by  another  handle, 
and  asked  him  who  made  the  sea,  the  ground  we  walked  on,  and 
the  hills  and  woods.  He  told  me,  "It  was  one  Benamuckee, 
that  lived  beyond  all";  he  could  describe  nothing  of  this  great 
person,  but  that  he  was  very  old,  "much  older,"  he  said,  "than 
the  sea  or  the  land,  than  the  moon  or  the  stars."  I  asked  him 
then,  if  this  old  person  had  made  all  things,  why  did  noi  all 
things  worship  him?  He  looked  very  grave,  and,  with  a  perfect 
look  of  innocence,  said,  "All  things  said  O!  to  him."  I  asked 
him  if  the  people  who  die  in  his  country  went  anywhere.  He 
said,  "Yes;  they  all  went  to  Benamuckee."  Then  I  asked  him 
whether  those  they  eat  up  went  thither  too.  He  said,  "Yes." 

The  reader  is  satisfied  with  the  entire  naturalness  of 
Friday's  simple  theology,  summed  up  in  the  one  article 
that  God  is  one  to  whom  all  creatures  say  "O!"  But 
Dickens  did  not  feel  this  necessity  for  realistic  speech 


136    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

when  he  put  into  the  mouth  of  little  Paul  Dombey  the 
wholly  unchildlike  bit  of  religio-sesthetic  criticism  that 
the  "print  upon  the  stairs  at  school  is  not  divine  enough." 
Friday  is  quite  natural;  Paul  is  impossible. 

The  reader  must  not  be  permitted  to  become  conscious 
of  the  critical  attitude  and  to  question  the  naturalness  of 
the  writer's  expression;  otherwise  he  will  fail  to  be  con- 
vinced and  all  reality  of  characterization  will  be  lost. 
This  demands  of  a  writer  effacement  of  self  in  his  own 
work.  He  must  see  so  truly  and  so  intensely  as  to  be- 
come for  the  time  being  the  very  character  that  he  would 
create.  His  own  peculiarities  of  expression,  his  own  views 
and  experiences  may  be  wholly  out  of  place  and  untrue 
to  life  when  attributed  to  another.  In  this  connection 
we  may  cite  two  contrasting  scenes  dealing  with  a  com- 
mon theme:  the  death  of  Colonel  Newcome  in  Thacker- 
ay's The  Newcomes  and  that  of  Paul  Dombey  already 
referred  to.  The  ordinary  reader  forgets  himself  and 
Thackeray  in  the  one;  he  is  present  at  the  bedside;  he 
sees  the  Colonel  rise  at  the  sound  of  the  old  bell  in  the 
tower  above  his  chamber;  he  hears  the  final  "adsum"; 
and  he  feels  the  desolation  that  follows  the  passing  of 
a  loved  friend.  In  the  other,  however,  he  does  not  forget 
that  he  is  a  reader;  he  is  conscious  of  Dickens  in  every 
line1 ;  and  he  loses  all  sense  of  illusion. 

The  manner  of  speech  sometimes  merges  so  naturally 
into  the  matter  itself  that  one  does  not  think  of  sepa- 
rating them  as  distinct  elements  in  characterization.  To 
draw  another  illustration  from  Dickens,  our  conception 
of  Sam  Weller  is  inextricably  connected  with  his  cockney 
turns  of  expression  and  his  ingenious  similes,  on  the  one 
hand,  and  with  his  shrewdness  and  humor,  on  the  other. 
Manner  and  matter  are  essentially  one. 

The  old  saw  to  the  effect  that  "actions  speak  louder 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  137 

than  words"  would  seem  to  imply  that  we  are  not  mas- 
ters of  what  we  do  in  the  same  degree  as  of  what  we  say; 
that  there  is  greater  opportunity  for  fallacious  inference 
in  judging  character  from  one's  words  and  manner  of 
utterance  than  from  one's  deeds.  This  in  turn  would  ac- 
count for  the  fact  that,  in  those  forms  of  narrative  writ- 
ing in  which  we  have  dramatic  characterization  rather 
than  the  mere  chronicling  of  events,  we  often  find  great 
stress  laid  upon  speech  and  attendant  action.  The  im- 
portance of  these  two  elements  is  recognized  even  in  the 
prosaic  law  court  and  determines  to  considerable  extent 
the  convincingness  of  certain  classes  of  evidence.  When 
a  witness  frankly  bears  testimony  to  facts  that  make 
against  his  own  interests,  his  very  frankness  tends  to 
establish  his  honesty.  Undesigned  testimony,  given  with 
evident  want  of  suspicion  on  the  part  of  a  witness  as  to 
what  bearing  his  words  may  have  on  the  case,  often  goes 
far  to  convince  the  court  of  the  witness's  sincerity,  in- 
genuousness, or  simplicity.  Crafty  counsel  set  careful 
traps  to  surprise  a  witness  into  betraying  guilt  by  word 
or  action  and  thus  to  influence  judge  or  jury.  In  the  fol- 
lowing scene  from  Anna  Katharine  Green's  The  Filigree 
Ball  we  have  an  illustration  of  this  device  made  to 
shadow  personality  by  the  action  attending  speech :  — 

Certainly  this  woman  was  a  thoroughbred  or  else  she  was  an 
adept  in  deception  such  as  few  of  us  had  ever  encountered.  The 
quietness  of  her  manner,  the  easy  tone,  the  quiet  eyes,  eyes  in 
whose  dark  depths  quiet  passions  were  visible,  but  passions 
that  were  under  the  control  of  an  equally  forcible  will,  made 
her  a  puzzle  to  all  men's  minds;  but  it  was  a  fascinating  puzzle 
that  awoke  a  species  of  awe  in  those  who  attempted  to  under- 
stand her.  To  all  appearance  she  was  the  unlikeliest  woman 
possible  to  cherish  criminal  intents,  yet  her  answers  were  rather 
clever  than  convincing,  unless  you  allowed  yourself  to  be 


138    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

swayed  by  the  look  of.  her  beautiful  face  or  the  music  of  her 
rich,  sad  voice. 

"You  did  not  remain  before  those  book-shelves  long?"  ob- 
served the  coroner. 

"  You  have  a  witness  who  knows  more  about  that  than  I  do," 
she  suggested ;  and  doubtless  aware  of  the  temerity  of  this  re- 
ply, waited  with  unmoved  countenance,  but  with  a  visibly 
bounding  breast,  for  what  would  doubtless  prove  a  fresh  at- 
tack. 

It  was  a  violent  one,  and  of  a  character  she  was  least  fitted 
to  meet.  Taking  up  the  box  I  have  so  often  mentioned,  the 
coroner  drew  away  the  ribbon  lying  on  the  top  and  disclosed 
the  pistol.  In  a  moment  her  hands  went  over  her  ears. 

"Why  do  you  do  that?"  he  asked.  "Did  you  think  I  was 
going  to  discharge  it?" 

She  smiled  pitifully  as  she  let  her  hands  fall  again. 

"I  have  a  dread  of  firearms,"  she  explained.  "I  always  have 
had.  Now  they  are  simply  terrible  to  me,  and  this  one  —  ' 

"I  understand, ' '  said  the  coroner,  with  a  slight  glance  in  the 
direction  of  Durbin.  They  had  evidently  planned  this  test  to- 
gether on  the  strength  of  an  idea  suggested  to  Durbin  by  her 
former  action  when  the  memory  of  this  shot  was  recalled  to 
her. 

"Your  horror  seems  to  lie  in  the  direction  of  the  noise  they 
make,"  continued  her  inexorable  interlocutor.  "One  would 
say  you  had  heard  this  pistol  discharged." 

Instantly  a  complete  breaking-up  of  her  hitherto  well  main- 
tained composure  altered  her  whole  aspect  and  she  vehemently 
cried :  — 

"I  did,  I  did.  I  was  on  Waverley  Avenue  that  night,  and  I 
heard  the  shot  which  in  all  probability  ended  my  sister's  life. 
I  walked  farther  than  I  intended:  I  strolled  into  the  street 
which  had  such  bitter  memories  for  us  and  I  heard  —  No,  I 
was  not  in  search  of  my  sister.  I  had  not  associated  my  sister's 
going  out  with  any  intention  of  visiting  this  house;  I  was  merely 
troubled  in  mind  and  anxious  and  —  and  — 

She  had  overrated  her  strength  or  her  cleverness.  She  found 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  139 

herself  unable  to  finish  the  sentence,  and  so  did  not  try.  She 
had  been  led  by  the  impulse  of  the  moment  farther  than  she 
had  intended,  and,  aghast  at  her  own  imprudence,  paused  with 
her  first  perceptible  loss  of  courage  before  the  yawning  gulf 
before  her. 

I  felt  myself  seized  by  a  very  uncomfortable  dread  lest  her 
concealments  and  unfinished  sentences  hid  a  guiltier  know- 
ledge of  this  crime  than  I  was  yet  ready  to  admit.1 

The  "quietness  of  manner,"  the  evidence  in  the  eyes 
of  "quiet  passions  under  the  control  of  a  forcible  will," 
the  "  apparent  lack  of  all  criminal  intent,"  bring  out  with 
all  the  more  effect  the  subsequent  "complete  break-up 
of  her  well-maintained  composure,"  and  produce  in  the 
reader  something  of  the  same  emotion  that  impressed 
the  coroner  and  the  spectators,  —  a  strong  conviction  as 
to  the  insincerity,  if  not  the  guilt,  of  the  witness.  In  con- 
sequence, all  the  greater  dramatic  force  attends  the  evo- 
lution of  the  plot.  Masters  of  narration  are  always  alive 
to  the  value  of  this  device,  and  give  to  their  characters 
all  the  details  of  facial  expression,  of  gesture,  of  tone  that 
attend  actual  utterance,  in  this  way  securing  to  the  dia- 
logue something  of  real  vitality. 

In  the  dialect  story  and  in  all  characterization  that 
seeks  to  present  speech  realistically  and  naturally,  we 
must  note  that,  if  the  writer  seeks  no  more  than  the 
portrayal  of  a  picturesque  figure,  —  a  Canadian  half- 
breed,  a  plantation  hand,  —  his  work  is  descriptive  in 
function;  the  dialect  or  the  oddity  of  speech  serves  the 
same  end  as  do  details  of  dress  or  of  feature.  The  finished 
effort  is  an  objective  character  sketch;  it  is  personage 
portrayal.  On  the  other  hand,  the  individualities  of 
speech  may  serve  more  than  the  mere  purpose  of  objecti- 

1  From  The  Filigree  Ball.  Copyright,  1902.  Used  by  permission 
of  the  publishers,  The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company. 


140    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

fying  a  personage;  they  may  be  elaborated  to  present  a 
clearer  and  deeper  insight  into  personality,  and  in  this 
way  to  intensify  the  dramatic  power  of  the  events  chron- 
icled. The  descriptive  element  in  this  case  becomes  essen- 
tial to  the  narration.  Such  is  the  case  in  a  novel  like 
Tess,  where  the  heroine's  Wessex  speech  is  quite  neces- 
sary to  our  conception  of  the  girl.  The  same  thing  is  true 
in  the  case  of  history  where  individualities  of  expression 
are  presented  in  order  that,  seeing  the  statesman  or  the 
soldier  more  accurately,  we  may  understand  his  policy 
or  his  strategy  more  fully.  Macaulay  offers  an  instance 
of  this  when,  in  sketching  Newcastle  as  a  central  figure 
in  the  politics  of  Walpole's  time,  he  presents  him  thus: 

In  truth  he  was  a  satire  ready  made.  All  that  the  art  of  the 
satirist  does  for  other  men,  nature  had  done  for  him.  Whatever 
was  absurd  about  him  stood  out  with  grotesque  prominence 
from  the  rest  of  the  character.  He  was  a  living,  moving,  talk- 
ing caricature.  His  gait  "was  a  shuffling  trot;  his  utterance  a 
rapid  stutter;  he  was  always  in  a  hurry;  he  was  never  in  time; 
he  abounded  in  fulsome  caresses  and  in  hysterical  tears.  His 
oratory  resembled  that  of  Justice  Shallow.  It  was  nonsense 
effervescent  with  animal  spirits  and  impertinence.  Of  his 
ignorance  many  anecdotes  remain,  some  well  authenticated, « 
some  probably  invented  at  coffee-houses,  but  all  exquisitely 
characteristic.  "Oh  —  yes  —  yes  —  to  be  sure  —  Annapolis 
must  be  defended  —  troops  must  be  sent  to  Annapolis  —  Pray 
where  is  Annapolis?"  —  "Cape  Breton  an  island!  wonderful! 
—  show  me  it  in  the  map.  So  it  is,  sure  enough.  My  dear  sir, 
you  always  bring  us  good  news.  I  must  go  and  tell  the  King 
that  Cape  Breton  is  an  island." 

Macaulay's  attempt  to  photograph  Newcastle's  stut-  • 
tering  incoherence  and  shallowness  of  mind  serves  a 
double  purpose :  objectively  Newcastle  is  brought  more 
distinctly  before  the  reader's  imagination,  and  subject- 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  141 

ively  he  is  characterized,  individualized,  by  what  he 
says. 

With  the  development  of  narrative  literature,  and  of 
fiction  in  particular,  there  has  come  increased  realism  in 
the  art  of  reproducing  dialectic  and  personal  oddities  of 
speech.  All  the  vowels  and  consonants,  aided  by  bat- 
talions of  diacritical  marks  and  by  fantastically  distorted 
spelling,  have  been  enlisted  into  the  service.  A  com- 
parison of  almost  any  story  written  a  century  or  more 
ago  and  a  modern  dialect  narrative  will  illustrate  this. 
The  following  are  fair  examples. 

In  Captain  Marryat's  Peter  Simple  (1834)  one  of  the 
most  famous  passages  is  the  picture  of  the  so-called 
"dignity  ball,"  given  by  colored  people  in  the  Barbadoes. 
Their  ridiculous  aping  of  European  manners,  their  ab- 
surd airs  and  outlandish  dress,  are  portrayed  at  length. 
Then  follows  an  account  of  the  ball  itself.  From  this 
we  make  a  selection  illustrating  how  the  writer  presents 
negro-English :  — 

At  this  moment  stepped  forth  the  premier  violin,  master  of 
the  ceremonies  and  ballet  master,  Massa  Johnson,  really  a 
very  smart  man,  who  gave  lessons  in  dancing  to  all  the  "Badian 
ladies."  .  .  .  His  bow-tick,  or  fiddlestick,  was  his  wand,  whose 
magic  rap  on  the  fiddle  produced  immediate  obedience  to  his 
mandates.  "Ladies  and  gentle,  take  your  places/'  All  started 
up.  "Miss  Eurydice,  you  open  de  ball."  Miss  Eurydice  had 
but  a  sorry  partner,  but  she  undertook  to  instruct  me.  O'Brien 
was  our  vis-a-vis  with  Miss  Euterpe.  The  other  gentlemen  were 
officers  from  the  ships,  and  we  stood  up  twelve,  chequered 
brown  and  white  like  a  chess-board.  All  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
Mr.  Apollo  Johnson,  who  first  looked  at  the  couples,  then  at 
his  fiddle,  and,  lastly,  at  the  other  musicians,  to  see  if  all  was 
right,  and  then  with  a  wave  of  his  bow-tick  the  music  began. 
"Massa  Lieutenant,"  cried  Apollo  to  O'Brien,  "cross  over  to 
opposite  lady,  right  hand  and  left,  den  figure  to  Miss  Eurydice 


142    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

—  dat  right;  now  four  hand  round.  You  lilly  midshipman,  set 
your  partner,  sir;  den  twist  her  round ;  dat  do,  now  stop.  First 
figure  all  over."  At  this  time  I  thought  I  might  venture  to 
talk  a  little  with  my  partner,  and  I  ventured  a  remark;  to  my 
surprise  she  answered  very  sharply,  "I  come  here  for  dance, 
sar,  and  not  for  chatter;  look  Massa  Johnson,  he  tap  um  bow- 
tick,"  etc. 

To  one  who  is  familiar  with  modern  fiction  the  fore- 
going would  seem  but  a  crude  attempt  to  reproduce  the 
speech  of  the  negro.  Far  more  ambitious  and  detailed  is, 
for  instance,  the  method  of  Joel  Chandler  Harris.  For 
example : 

"Ole  Brer  Bull  wuz  grazin'  in  de  pastur'  des  like  nothin' 
ain't  happen,  but  he  keep  on  de  watch.  When  he'd  see  Simmy- 
Sam  anywhars  out'n  de  yard,  Brer  Bull  'ud  sorter  feed  to'rds 
'im,  but  Simmy-Sam  wan't  takin'  no  chances,  en  he  kep'  close 
ter  kivver.  But  creeturs  is  mo'  patient-like  dan  what  foks 
is,  en  bimeby  it  got  so  Simmy-Sam  'ud  go  furder  en  furder 
fum  de  house,  en  one  day  de  'oman  sont  'im  out  in  de  woods 
atter  some  pine  kindlin',  en  he  got  ter  playin'  en  foolin'  'roun'. 
You  know  how  chillun  is,  en  how  dey  will  do:  well,  dat  des  de 
way  Simmy-Sam  done.  He  des  frolicked  'roun'  out  dar  in  de 
brush,  twel  bimeby  he  hear  ole  Brer  Bull  come  a-rippin'  en  a- 
snortin '  thoo  de  woods !  Hit  in  about  looked  like  his  time  wuz 
up."  l 

Mr.  Harris  takes  the  reproduction  of  the  negro  dialect 
very  seriously.  He  queries  whether  in  the  homely  words 
of  Uncle  Remus  we  may  not  trace  philological  changes 
from  the  English  of  three  hundred  years  ago  that  would  be 
of  interest  to  the  student  of  linguistics.  He  suggests  that 
dozens  of  words  such  as  "hit"  for  "it"  and  "ax"  for 
"ask"  might  open  to  such  a  student  the  whole  field  of 

1  Uncle  Remus  and  His  Friends.  Published  by  Houghton  Mifflin 
Company. 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  143 

English  philology.  All  of  which  indicates  the  modern 
tendency  to  submit  everything  to  the  test  of  reality  and 
science.  Yet  amid  all  this  effort  on  the  part  of  modern 
writers  to  photograph  speech,  as  it  were,  the  student  of 
narrative  literature  will  do  well  occasionally  to  recall 
that  there  is  something  more  important  and  more  essen- 
tial than  verisimilitude.  *  Upon  this  very  subject,  the 
over-use  of  dialect,  a  writer  in  Macmillaris  Magazine 
in  1897  said :- 

In  the  main,  the  practice  of  the  best  writers  confirms  the  rule 
that  dialect  should  only  be  used  to  convey  ideas  for  the  expres- 
sion of  which  the  standard  language  is  inadequate,  and  should 
be  used  only  to  an  extent  sufficient  to  mark  the  individuality  of 
the  speaker.  Where  the  use  of  dialect  is  really  vitalizing,  where 
it  emphasizes  a  character  really  worth  knowing,  it  is  permissi- 
ble, but  not  otherwise.  And  after  all,  the  experience  for  which 
the  literary  language  does  not  provide  sufficient  expression  is 
comparatively  unimportant.  It  is  a  sign  of  degeneracy  in  our 
literature  when  writers  deliberately  resort  to  the  grotesque, 
the  archaic,  or  the  vernacular.  It  is  the  duty  of  his  countrymen 
to  maintain  the  credit  of  the  tongue  that  Shakespeare  wrote. 
We  owe  far  more  to  it  than  to  any  dialect. 

c.  Characterization  by  Environment 

Character,  finally,  may  be  presented  by  means  of  en- 
vironment, which  in  this  connection  is  to  be  considered 
from  two  opposite  points  of  view  —  actively,  as  deter- 
mining character,  and  passively,  as  determined  by  it. 
In  the  first  of  these  two  aspects,  —  the  active,  —  envi- 
ronment is  but  a  phase  of  setting,  and  as  such  has  al- 
ready been  discussed  (pp.  79-82).  In  so  far,  however,  as 
character  works  upon  environment,  modifies  it,  and  by  * 
so  doing  displays  its  own  vigor,  it  rises  superior  to  atten- 
dant circumstance,  and  the  consideration  of  this  phase 


144    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

of  narrative  writing  .belongs  not  to  setting  but  to  the 
various  devices  for  presenting  effectively  the  personality 
that  possesses  the  power  of  modification. 

Man's  surroundings  are  in  no  small  degree  determined, 
created  by  him;  circumstances  give  direction  to  charac- 
ter, but  at  the  same  time  they  are  dominated  by  char- 
acter, receive  its  stamp,  and  offer  concrete  evidence  of 
its  existence.  JusU  as  the  prostrate  tree  gives  evidence 
of  the  sweep  of  the  hurricane,  so  some  concrete  act  may 
give  indication  of  the  character  that  dictates  it.  The 
narrative  method  under  discussion  would  give  some  im- 
pression of  the  storm  by  presenting  a  vivid  picture  of  the 
havoc ;  would  present  a  clear  conception  of  the  person- 
ality by  showing  definitely  not  the  environment  that 
may  have  made  that  personality  possible,  but  the  envi- 
ronment that  the  personality  itself  has  created.  For  in- 
stance, in  the  exposition  of  Elizabeth's  character,  to 
which  reference  has  been  made  on  page  117,  the  traits 
that  the  Queen  drew  from  Henry  VIII  and  Anne  Boleyn 
are  indicated  as  determining  elements  in  Elizabeth's  per- 
sonality. Knowing  them,  we  can  better  understand  the 
royal  character.  On  the  other  hand,  her  favorites,  the 
enemies  that  she  made,  the  court  that  she  gathered  about 
her,  the  ministers  that  she  selected  to  maintain  her  poli- 
cies, —  these  also  shadow  forth  the  personality  of  Eliza- 
beth. Or  again,  in  Tess,  Angel  Clare's  environment, 
as  well  as  the  traits  that  he  inherited  from  his  parents, 
is  a  strong  element  in  determining  the  man's  personality; 
but  the  course  of  life  that  he  deliberately  elected  to  pur- 
sue, the  woman  whom  he  chose  as  his  wife,  —  these, 
which  may  be  called  the  results  of  his  personality,  set 
forth  Angel  Clare's  character  with  no  less  distinctness. 
Excellent  illustration  of  the  same  device  is  presented  in 
A  New  England  Nun:  — 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  145 

She  had  been  peacefully  sewing  at  her  sitting-room  window 
all  the  afternoon.  Now  she  quilted  her  needle  carefully  into 
her  work,  which  she  folded  precisely,  and  laid  in  a  basket  with 
her  thimble  and  thread  and  scissors.  Louisa  Ellis  could  not 
remember  that  ever  in  her  life  she  had  mislaid  one  of  these 
little  feminine  appurtenances,  which  had  become,  from  long 
use  and  constant  association,  a  very  part  of  her  personality. 

Louisa  tied  a  green  apron  round  her  waist,  and  got  out  a  flat 
straw  hat  with  a  green  ribbon.  Then  she  went  into  the  garden 
with  a  little  blue  crockery  bowl,  to  pick  some  currants  for  her 
tea.  After  the  currants  were  picked  she  sat  on  the  back  door- 
step and  stemmed  them,  collecting  the  stems  carefully  in  her 
apron,  and  afterwards  throwing  them  into  the  hen-coop.  She 
looked  sharply  at  the  grass  beside  the  step  to  see  if  any  had 
fallen  there.1 

Now  this  environment  of  trivial  detail  "had  become 
by  long  use  and  constant  association  a  very  part  of 
her  personality,"  and  had  made  her  inevitably  what 
she  was;  yet  we  have  here  an  environment  that  Louisa 
Ellis  had  made  and  was  still  making  for  herself;  and,  be- 
ing the  product  of  her  personality,  the  result  of  her 
own  deliberate  volition,  it  is  interesting  as  indicative 
of  her  true  self. 

Allied  to  this  narrative  device  of  expounding  charac- 
ter by  showing  the  various  influences  of  that  character 
upon  personal  environment,  is  the  process  of  expound- 
ing character  through  contrast,  wherein  we  have  the 
complete  rejection  of  the  moulding  influence  and  thereby 
a  revelation  of  the  personality  concerned.  The  pages  of 
true  as  well  as  of  fictitious  narrative  abound  with  in- 
stances illustrating  the  value  of  a  contrasting  environ- 
ment in  showing  forth  character.  Queen  Elizabeth  again 

1  Miss  Wilkins's  A  New  England  Nun.  Copyright,  1891.  Used  by 
permission  of  the  publishers,  Harper  and  Brothers. 


146    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

becomes  a  more  definite  entity  when  we  view  her  in 
contrast  to  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  with  whom  she  was 
brought  into  sharp  conflict.  As  portrayed  by  Walter  Scott 
in  Kenilworth,  Leicester  is  made  clearer  and  more  definite 
by  the  scenes  in  which  Sussex  plays  a  part,  and  Tressil- 
ian,  too,  in  many  ways  affords  an  effective  foil  in  the 
characterization  of  the  great  Earl.  George  Eliot  makes 
extensive  use  of  this  principle  of  contrast  throughout 
Romola.  "The  Florentine  Lily,"  in  the  purity  of  her 
life,  in  her  filial  devotion,  in  her  loyalty  to  high  ideals, 
presents  a  consistent  contrast  to  Tito,  who  is  untrue  to 
his  wife,  who  sacrifices  his  foster-parent  to  his  own 
selfish  interests,  and  to  whom  personal  gratification  is 
ever  the  foremost  consideration.  Altruism  as  opposed 
to  self-love  is  presented  with  greater  vividness  than 
could  be  secured  by  the  individual  presentation  of 
either  Romola  or  Tito.  The  dramatic  effect  is  greatly 
increased  by  the  contrast  in  personalities. 

RHETORICAL  QUALITIES  IN  CHARACTERIZATION 
Clearness 

Characterization,  whether  of  personage  or  personality, 
demands  a  rhetorical  quality  that  hitherto  has  received 
little  attention:  clearness.  Like  correct  spelling  and 
punctuation,  grammatical  construction,  and  reputable 
use  of  words,  clearness  of  expression  has  been  taken  for 
granted,  but  at  this  point  it  must  receive  some  detailed 
consideration. 

The  objective  delineation  of  a  personage  must  first 
of  all  be  entirely  distinct;  and  in  the  subjective  exposi- 
tion of  character  the  abstract  qualities  must  be  made  so 
clear  that  the  personality  in  question  shall  be  unmistak- 
able. The  discussion  of  clearness  in  this  connection  at 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  147 

once  suggests  the  question  of  the  type  and  the  individ- 
ual. The  typical  character  will  be  distinguished  by 
traits  that  belong  to  the  class;  that  is,  by  general 
traits:  the  individual  character  will  be  differentiated 
from  others  of  its  class  by  those  peculiarities  that  make 
it  essentially  itself.  It  is  a  common  fault  with  young 
writers  to  describe  their  heroes  and  heroines  by  class 
characteristics  only,  with  the  result  that  these  crea- 
tions possess  as  little  real  distinction  as  do  the  conven- 
tional broad-shouldered,  lantern- jawed,  and  small- 
headed  gentry  that  figure  in  the  advertisements  for 
ready-made  clothing  and  "gents'"  underwear.  One 
inexperienced  author  thus  begins  a  story:  — 

George  Kasson,  junior  member  of  the  firm  of  J.  T.  Kasson, 
Son,  and  Co.,  bond  brokers,  of  Chicago,  college  graduate,  ath- 
lete, president  of  his  class,  and  already,  in  his  twenty-fifth 
year,  rising  to  prominence  among  the  younger  business  frater- 
nity of  the  seething  western  metropolis,  a  leader  by  will,  if  not 
by  birth,  was  busily  dressing  in  his  room  at  the  Grand  Hotel 
at  Sacramento*. 

And  a  little  later  on  we  are  introduced  to  the  heroine 
thus :  — 

A  piquant  visage  with  big,  round  blue  eyes,  unobtrusive  nose 
and  gently  fluctuating  nostrils,  lips  enchantingly  pink  and 
forming  a  perfect  Cupid's  bow,  cheeks  suffused  with  a  healthy, 
warm  flush,  and  all  set  off  by  a  luxurious  mound  of  silken, 
fluffy  hair. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  each  of  these  pictures,  as  far 
as  effectiveness  is  concerned,  is  a  dismal  failure.  No  two 
readers  will  see  the  same  figures.  In  each  case  the  writer 
has  selected  only  the  type  characteristics  of  the  young 
man  and  the  young  woman  of  the  period :  in  the  one  case, 
college  education,  athletic  prowess,  popularity,  ambi- 


148    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION* 

tion;  in  the  other,  blue  eyes,  small  nose,  pink  lips,  fluffy 
hair.  There  is  no  trace  of  individuality. 

For  distinctness  of  impression  contrast  with  either  of 
the  preceding  the  following  picture  of  Judge  Pyncheon 
as  he  ascends  Hepzibah's  steps  in  The  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables:  — 

As  the  child  went  down  the  steps,  a  gentleman  ascended 
them,  and  made  his  entrance  into  the  shop.  It  was  the  portly, 
and,  had  it  possessed  the  advantage  of  a  little  more  height, 
would  have  been  the  stately  figure  of  a  man  considerably  in  the 
decline  of  life,  dressed  in  a  black  suit  of  some  thin  stuff,  re- 
sembling broadcloth  as  closely  as  possible.  A  gold-headed  cane 
of  rare  Oriental  wood,  added  materially  to  the  high  respecta- 
bility of  his  aspect,  as  did  also  a  neckcloth  of  the  utmost  snowy 
purity,  and  the  conscientious  polish  of  his  boots.  His  dark, 
square  countenance,  with  its  almost  shaggy  depth  of  eyebrows, 
was  naturally  impressive,  and  would,  perhaps,  have  been  rather 
stern,  had  not  the  gentleman  considerately  taken  upon  himself 
to  mitigate  the  harsh  effect  by  a  look  of  exceeding  good-humor 
and  benevolence.  Owing,  however,  to  a  somewhat  massive  ac- 
cumulation of  animal  substance  about  the  lower  region  of  his 
face,  the  look  was,  perhaps,  unctuous,  rather  than  spiritual, 
and  had,  so  to  speak,  a  kind  of  fleshly  effulgence,  not  altogether 
so  satisfactory  as  he  doubtless  intended  it  to  be.  A  susceptible 
observer,  at  any  rate,  might  have  regarded  it  as  affording  very 
little  evidence  of  the  general  benignity  of  soul  whereof  it  pur- 
ported to  be  the  outward  reflection.  And  if  the  observer 
chanced  to  be  ill-natured,  as  well  as  acute  and  susceptible,  he 
would  probably  suspect  that  the  smile  on  the  gentleman's  face 
was  a  good  deal  akin  to  the  shine  on  his  boots,  and  that  each 
must  have  cost  him  and  his  boot-black,  respectively,  a  good 
deal  of  hard  labor  to  bring  out  and  preserve  them. 

In  this  picture,  Hawthorne  has  presented  not  so 
much  the  characteristics  that  might  be  selected  as  typi- 
cal of  every  conventional  country  squire  as  those  that 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  149 

distinguished  Judge  Pyncheon  from  all  other  country 
squires.  The  judge  has,  indeed,  what  we  may  call  the 
hall-marks  of  his  class:  the  gold-headed  cane,  the  white 
neck-cloth,  the  black  broadcloth  suit,  the  square  coun- 
tenance and  shaggy  eyebrows, —  all  combining  in  one  gen- 
eral effect  of  stateliness  and  respectability.  But  with  all 
this  there  is  something  that  makes  Judge  Pyncheon  es- 
sentially an  individual;  something  that  leaves  upon  the 
reader's  mind  a  perfectly  definite  impression. 

The  same  general  rule  holds  as  to  clearness  in  present- 
ing personality.  A  writer  seeing  in  his  subject  only  con- 
ventional and  class  characteristics  fails  to  discover  to  the 
reader  those  little  touches  that  differentiate  man  from 
man.  The  objective  picture  perhaps  maybe  clear  enough. 
The  reader  may  see  the  hero,  the  heroine,  the  country 
squire,  the  village  doctor,  with  absolute  distinctness  and 
may  yet  fail  to  know  him.  So  it  is  when  one  looks  over  a 
number  of  strange  faces  in  some  public  gathering.  The 
various  individuals  are  distinct  enough  objectively  as 
one  looks  at  them,  and  yet  each  remains  a  stranger;  no 
single  personality  is  revealed.  So  in  the  characteriza- 
tion that  attends  narration:  there  must,  for  subjective 
directness,  be  something  deeper  than  mere  firmness  of 
external  outline.  Further,  too,  we  must  have  more  than 
a  mere  type  of  personality.  It  is  not  enough  to  know  that 
a  man  is  hypocritical  or  sincere,  close-fisted  or  generous. 
Not  all  hypocrites  are  Pecksniffs,  nor  are  all  misers 
Isaacs  of  York. 

The  portrayal  of  the  type  and  of  the  individual  sug- 
gests the  subject  of  caricature,  to  which  reference  has 
already  been  made.  Caricature,  or  hyperbole  in  char-  • 
acterizajion,  may  easily  result  from  the  attempt  to  avoid 
vagueness  in  portrayal.  To  objectify  a  personage  beyond 
all  possibility  of  error,  the  writer  goes  to  the  extreme  of 


150    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

elaborating  some  one  characteristic  unduly  and  dispro- 
portionately. The  result  is  a  picture  that  is  so  unnatural 
as  to  be  realistically  inconceivable.  An  illustration  oc- 
curs in  the  fourth  chapter  of  Martin  Chuzzlewit,  wherein 
the  various  members  of  the  Chuzzlewit  family  are  por- 
trayed as  they  gather  vulture-like  at  the  Blue  Dragon 
in  anticipation  of  the  death  of  old  Martin.  Of  course 
the  humor  of  the  exaggeration  is  unmistakable,  but  in 
spite  of  the  distinctness  of  the  portrayal  evidenced  in 
such  details  as  Mr.  Spottletoe's  luxuriant  whiskers,  old 
Anthony's  sharpness  of  feature,  the  acerbity  of  the  spin- 
ster daughters,  the  vagueness  of  the  young  nephew's 
features,  and  the  "spottiness"  of  Mr.  George's  general 
appearance,  it  may  be  questioned  whether  all  the  figures 
thus  indicated  are,  after  all,  models  of  clear  presentation. 

Unity 

In  the  presentation  of  character,  unity,  as  well  as 
clearness,  is  an  important  consideration.  In  depicting 
the  dramatis  persona?  unity  is  secured  by  the  dominance 
of  one  character  or  of  one  set  of  characters.  Personages 
of  equal  importance  crowding  the  narrative  are  like  the 
chorus  on  the  stage:  they  serve  the  purpose  of  back- 
ground; they  may  supply  substance  and  increased  effect; 
but  they  are  not  all-sufficient.  They  are  like  setting,  in 
that  they  do  not  exist  for  their  own  sake.  The  confusion 
that  attends  the  want  of  dominance  on  the  part  of  one 
character  or  of  one  set  of  characters  often  appears  in  the 
work  of  Dickens,  where  personages  that  are,  in  fact,  sub- 
ordinate are  so  fully  elaborated  as  to  usurp  the  place 
'properly  belonging  to  the  principals,  and  dramatic  unity 
is  lost.  To  cite  Martin  Chuzzlewit  once  more  as  an  ex- 
ample, while  there  may  be  no  doubt  as  to  who  holds  the 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  151 

title-role,  yet  so  elaborate  is  the  presentation  of  the  three 
Pecksniffs,  of  old  Martin,  of  Anthony  and  his  undutiful 
son,  of  Mark  Tapley,  of  Tom  Pinch,  of  Mrs.  Gamp,  of 
the  various  Americans,  that  in  reality  young  Martin 
Chuzzlewit  himself  fails  to  dominate  the  novel.  Middle- 
march  has  already  been  mentioned  as  a  narrative  lacking 
in  unity  (p.  5) ;  the  reader's  interest  is  so  divided  between 
Lydgate  and  Rosamond,  Dorothea  and  Ladislaw,  Mary 
and  Fred,  that  confusion  results.  In  contrast  to  these 
one  may  consider  Vanity  Fair  or  The  Mill  on  the  Floss. 
That  Vanity  Fair  is  crowded  with  actors  is  apparent 
enough;  yet,  although  Thackeray  gave  to  the  novel  the 
sub-title  "A  novel  without  a  hero,"  the  reader  does  not 
fail  to  realize  that  Becky  Sharp  dominates  all.  Dobbin, 
Amelia,  Jos  Sedley,  Rawdon  Crawley,  and  others,  it  is 
true,  play  important  parts ;  yet,  as  compared  with  Martin 
Chuzzlewit,  Vanity  Fair  furnishes  an  amount  of  concen- 
tration that  is  lacking  in  the  story  of  Martin's  fortunes. 
Similarly  in  The  Mill  on  the  Floss,  there  is  no  question  as 
to  the  dominance  of  Maggie  Tulliver,  and  the  novel  pre- 
sents a  one-ness  of  effect  that  Middlemarch  does  not 
possess. 

From  another  point  of  view  this  same  matter  of  rela- 
tive values,  of  dominance,  may  be  said  to  illustrate  the 
principles  of  force,  of  emphasis.  If  of  a  dozen  characters, 
eleven  are  subordinate  to  the  twelfth,  the  twelfth  will 
proportionately  dominate  the  narrative  and  give  to  it 
unity  of  tone;  but,  at  the  same  time,  the  mere  fact  of  the 
subordination  will  heighten  the  effective  presentation  of 
that  twelfth  character,  the  hero;  he  will  stand  out  more 
distinctly  against  the  background  of  the  subordinated 
eleven.  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities  at  times  offers  a  problem 
as  to  who  is  the  real  hero,  and  the  unity  of  the  story 
is  for  the  moment  open  to  question.  Certainly  Doctor 


152    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

Manette,  Charles  Darnay,  and  Sydney  Carton  by  turns 
share  the  honors;  but,  as  the  narrative  progresses,  uncer- 
tainty diminishes,  and,  although  all  the  characters  play 
their  distinct  parts,  yet  by  degrees  they  become  subor- 
dinated, and  Carton  is  thrown  into  strong  relief,  —  a 
relief  more  forceful  by  the  very  fact  of  the  subordina- 
tion. Unity  is  thus  ultimately  secured  and  emphasis 
follows. 

The  very  idea  of  personality  suggests  unity:  there  can 
be  no  personality  without  individuality,  —  that  is,  one- 
ness, isolation.  Into  every  personality  there  may  enter 
many  traits  common  to  all  men,  but  it  is  the  peculiar 
"  combination,  or  unification,  of  these  traits  that  consti- 
tutes the  individual.  Macbeth,  Csesar,  lago,  Claudius  of 
Denmark,  Mr.  Pecksniff,  Mr.  Stryver,  Beatrix  Esmond, 
Becky  Sharp,  Mrs.  Mackenzie,  —  every  one  of  these 
illustrates  some  phase  of  ambition,  but  with  a  difference 
in  combination  and  a  unity  of  effect  that  in  each  case  re- 
sults in  characteristic  personality.  The  "all  around  " 
man,  as  a  study  in  character,  is  often  a  man  without 
individuality,  and  presents  few  dramatic  possibilities  to 
the  writer  of  narrative  wherein  character  is  to  serve  as  an 
important  element.  This,  however,  should  not  be  taken 
to  preclude  that  ultimate  one-ness  that  may  be  the  re- 
sult of  "consistent  inconsistency."  Macaulay's  charac- 
terization of  Pitt  is  a  case  in  point. 

His  was  not  a  complete  and  well-proportioned  greatness. 
The  public  life  of  Hampden  or  of  Somers  resembles  a  regular 
drama,  which  can  be  criticised  as  a  whole,  and  every  scene  of 
which  is  to  be  viewed  in  connection  with  the  main  action.  The 
public  life  of  Pitt,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  rude  though  striking 
piece,  a  piece  abounding  in  incongruity,  a  piece  without  any 
unity  of  plan,  but  redeemed  by  some  noble  passages,  the  effect 
of  which  is  increased  by  the  tameness  or  extravagance  of  what 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  153 

precedes  and  of  what  follows.  His  opinions  were  unfixed.  His 
conduct  at  some  of  the  most  important  conjunctures  of  his 
life  was  evidently  determined  by  pride  and  resentment.  He 
had  one  fault,  which  of  all  human  faults  is  most  rarely  found  in 
company  with  true  greatness.  He  was  extremely  affected.  He 
was  an  almost  solitary  instance  of  a  man  of  real  genius,  and  of 
a  brave,  lofty,  and  commanding  spirit,  without  simplicity  of 
character.  .  .  .  Yet,  with  all  his  faults  and  affectations,  Pitt 
had,  in  a  very  extraordinary  degree,  many  of  the  elements  of 
greatness.  He  had  genius,  strong  passions,  quick  sensibility, 
and  vehement  enthusiasm  for  the  grand  and  the  beautiful. 
There  was  something  about  him  which  ennobled  tergiversa- 
tion itself.  He  often  went  wrong,  very  wrong.  But,  to  quote 
the  language  of  Wordsworth, 

"He  still  retained, 

'Mid  such  abasement,  what  he  had  received 
From  nature,  an  intense  and  glowing  mind." 

A  common  error  of  crude  characterization  lies  in  fail- 
ure to  catch  the  harmony  that  ultimately  belongs  to  all 
of  the  conflicting  traits  taken  in  their  entirety.  It  often 
appears  in  cases  wherein  some  distinct  phase  of  tempera- 
ment is  premised  —  as  in  the  case  of  Colonel  Newcome, 
for  instance,  or  of  the  Reverend  James  Moore,  or  of 
William  Pitt,  —  but  where  the  writer,  by  introducing 
words  and  actions  out  of  keeping  with  the  premises,  in- 
validates the  totality  of  effect.  The  natural  tendency  to 
discover  this  agreement  between  character  and  its  ex- 
ternal manifestations  is  illustrated  in  the  various  critical 
estimates  of  Hamlet's  personality,  —  a  theme  upon 
which  much  has  been  written.  In  the  Prince  one  sees  a 
madman;  another,  weakened  will  power;  still  another,  a 
sensitive  nature  weighed  down  by  moral  responsibility. 
Each  defends  his  particular  thesis  by  attempting  to 
demonstrate  that  every  word,  every  act,  is  consistent 
with  the  personality  set  forth  in  the  thesis.  The  actor  in 


154    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

his  interpretation  goes  a  step  further:  not  only  does  he 
find  the  utterances  of  the  Prince  consistent  with  his  con- 
ception of  the  part,  but  he  delivers  each  word  with  ap- 
propriate action  so  as  to  accentuate  and  objectify  his 
conception.  A  large  part  of  the  success  that  has  attended 
the  interpretation  of  dramatic  characters  by  really  great 
actors  is  due  to  the  unity  of  the  conception,  the  harmony 
between  the  word,  the  act,  and  the  personality. 

In  connection  with  unity  as  an  element  in  successful 
character  creation,  what  is  known  as  "point  of  view"  — 
that  is,  method  of  approach  —  is  an  important  consid- 
eration. Just  as  the  Great  Stone  Face  viewed  from  one 
spot  "precisely  resembled  the  features  of  a  human  coun- 
tenance," and  yet,  "  if  the  spectator  approached  too  near, 
it  lost  the  outline  of  a  gigantic  visage,"  and  became  "  only 
a  heap  of  ponderous  and  gigantic  rocks  piled  in  chaotic 
ruin  one  upon  another,"  so  the  character  that  from  one 
point  of  view  is  noble,  pure,  complete,  becomes  from  an- 
other, ignoble,  sensual,  or  dwarfed.  In  The  Choir  Invis- 
ible, as  the  Reverend  James  Moore  preached  from  the 
text  "  My  peace  I  give  unto  you,"  and  looked  down  over 
his  congregation  of  Kentucky  frontiersmen,  he  saw 
"  many  a  thing  that  no  man  knew  he  saw ;  he  met  the  wild 
beasts  of  different  souls,  he  crept  up  on  the  lurking  sav- 
ages of  the  passions."  But  to  another  observer  these 
same  souls  "by  their  strength,  their  courage,  patience, 
watchfulness,  constancy,  —  by  the  inmost  will  and  be- 
holden face  of  victory  had  overmastered  the  evil  within 
themselves  as  they  had  overmastered  the  peril  in  Ken- 
tucky." They  were  "dwelling  in  green  and  tranquil  pas- 
tures where  the  will  of  God  broods  like  summer  light." 
They  were  the  same  personalities,  but  were  viewed  from 
different  angles. 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  155 

When  Lancelot  came  to  Astolat,  in  the  eyes  of  Elaine, 
we  are  told, 

Marr'd  as  he  was,  he  seem'd  the  goodliest  man 
That  ever  among  ladies  ate  in  hall, 
And  noblest; 

yet  when  this  same  knight  of  the  Table  Round  looked  into 
his  own  heart  and  there  saw  the  sinful  shame  of  his  love 
for  Guinevere  he  thought 

What  am  I?  What  profits  me  my  name 

Of  greatest  knight?  I  fought  for  it  and  have  it: 

Pleasure  to  have  it,  none;  to  lose  it,  pain; 

Now  grown  a  part  of  me;  but  what  use  in  it?  .  .  . 

Alas  for  Arthur's  greatest  knight,  a  man 

Not  after  Arthur's  heart! 

We  find  the  same  thing  illustrated  in  the  pages  of  ac- 
tual historical  narrative.  The  Reverend  Francis  Thack- 
eray, from  the  study  of  state  papers  and  from  the  bio- 
graphic data  regarding  William  Pitt,  Earl  of  Chatham, 
saw  in  his  hero  "not  merely  a  great  poet,  in  esse,  and  a 
great  general,  in  posse,  but  a  finished  example  of  moral 
excellence,  the  just  man  made  perfect."  Macaulay,  on 
the  other  hand,  from  the  same  data,  concludes  that 
"there  scarcely  ever  lived  a  person  who  had  so  little 
claim  to  this  sort  of  praise  as  Pitt." 

In  expounding  character,  the  most  careful  writers  ap- 
proach the  subject  from  some  definite  position,  and  por- 
tray the  person  under  consideration  as  seen  from  the 
angle  chosen.  Macaulay,  for  example,  in  his  portrayal  of 
Sir  Robert  Walpole,  writes :  — 

He  was  incorruptible  by  money.  His  dominant  passion  was 
the  love  of  power:  and  the  heaviest  charge  which  can  be 
brought  against  him  is  that  to  this  passion  he  never  scrupled 
to  sacrifice  the  interests  of  his  country. 


156    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

The  succeeding  paragraphs,  which  elucidate  the  charac- 
ter of  the  great  minister,  are  all  drawn  to  this  pattern. 
His  conduct  of  the  Spanish  War,  his  shrewd  political 
management  of  his  own  party,  and  his  sustained  battle 
against  the  Opposition,  —  all  are  elaborated  in  the  light 
of  the  prefatory  characterization.  The  reader  never 
loses  sight  of  Sir  Robert's  incorruptibility  and  passion 
for  power. 

In  the  biography  of  his  wife,  Alice  Freeman  Palmer, 
Professor  Palmer,  at  the  outset,  states  distinctly  that  he 
is  impelled  to  write  the  book  by  three  considerations : 

Affection  first  of  all.  .  .  .  Perhaps  my  grateful  pen  may  bring 
to  others  a  portion  of  the  bounty  I  myself  received.  ...  A 
second  and  more  obvious  summons  conies  from  the  fact  that 
in  herself  and  apart  from  me  Mrs.  Palmer  was  a  notable  per- 
son. ...  At  her  death  I  received  nearly  two  thousand  letters 
from  statesmen,  schoolgirls,  clerks,  lawyers,  teachers,  country 
wives,  outcasts,  millionaires,  ministers,  men  of  letters  —  a 
heterogeneous  and  to  me  largely  an  unknown  company,  but 
alike  in  feeling  the  marvel  of  her  personality  and  the  loss  her 
death  had  caused  them.  .  .  .  And  now  these  persons  are  re- 
calling her  influence  and  asking  for  explanation.  .  .  Accord- 
ingly, in  response  to  many  requests,  I  mean  to  make  the  second 
object  of  this  book  the  study  of  an  attractive  human  prob- 
lem. .  .  .  One  more  aim  remains.  ...  In  some  of  the 
social  movements  of  her  time  Mrs.  Palmer  had  a  considerable 
share.  ...  As  she  was  sometimes  forced  into  leadership,  she 
may  be  said  to  have  a  certain  historical  importance. 

In  what  follows,  —  in  this  case,  a  character  study  by 
the  narrative  method,  —  the  three  impulses  thus  an- 
nounced— "the  instability  of  love,  the  general  desire 
for  portraiture,  the  rights  of  history  "  —are  consistently 
kept  before  the  reader.  When  he  has  read  the  biography, 
the  lovableness  of  Mrs.  Palmer,  her  influence,  and  her 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  157 

leadership  in  the  educational  movements  of  her  day  re- 
main as  the  three  essential  notes  of  the  composition. 
They  permeate  and  give  individuality  to  the  three  hun- 
dred pages  that  constitute  the  biography.  Unity  of 
characterization  is  one  of  the  most  marked  rhetorical 
elements  of  the  work. 

Without  this  initial  definition  of  one's  point  of  view 
there  can  hardly  be  unity  of  characterization.  It  may 
not  be  expressed  with  the  formality  that  marks  the 
biography  just  cited,  but  it  must  be  felt.  So  many  are 
the  angles  of  reflection  in  every  complex  personality, 
that  unless  the  writer  moves  by  the  guidance  of  a  single 
ray  he  will  lose  his  path.  The  student  of  argumentation 
in  preparing  his  brief  must  weigh  all  the  testimony  for 
and  against  his  contention,  in  order,  that  by  ultimate 
elimination  of  extraneous  and  irrelevant  matter  he  may 
narrow  his  question  down  to  the  main  issues  and  restrict 
his  proof  to  the  demonstration  of  these  issues.  Simi- 
larly the  student  of  narration,  in  the  process  of  charac- 
terization, must  choose  a  definite  position  from  which  to 
approach  his  subject,  and  then,  by  the  elimination  of  all 
extraneous,  conflicting,  or  unharmonious  matter,  secure 
a  portrayal  that  is  characterized  by  one-ness  and  consist- 
ency. 

.  The  devices  by  which  this  unity  of  view  may  be  secured 
are  many.  In  Henry  Esmond,  for  example,  we  see  Bea- 
trix and  Lady  Castle  wood  through  the  eyes  of  Esmond 
himself :  we  read  his  own  personal  memoirs,  wherein  all  is 
presented  as  it  appeared  to  him,  the  narrator.  It  is  en- 
tirely conceivable  that  did  we  possess  the  memoirs  of  the 
Baroness  Bernstein  or  the  diary  of  Lady  Castlewood,  our 
conception  of  Beatrix's  character  might  be  so  modified 
as  to  bear  little  resemblance  to  that  presented  in  Thack- 
eray's novel.  And  the  private  letters  of  Father  Holt 


158    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

might  shake  our  confidence  somewhat  even  in  the  consist- 
ent perfection  of  Colonel  Esmond;  they  might,  indeed, 
go  far  to  refute  the  charge  of  priggishness  so  often  laid  at 
the  Colonel's  door. 

As  a  matter  of  plot  structure,  that  is,  as  a  means  of 
presenting  effectively  the  various  constituent  events  of 
the  action,  this  device  of  making  the  principal  actor  in  a 
story  the  narrator  has  many  advantages.  But  as  a  means 
of  characterization  this  first- person  method  is  open  to 
rather  evident  drawbacks.  That  its  unchanging  point 
of  view  insures  unity  is  in  its  favor,  but  it  precludes  direct 
characterization  of  the  main  actor  himself,  and  very 
materially  limits  all  characterization,  direct  and  indirect, 
of  the  minor  figures  as  well.  The  narrator  himself  can 
hardly  expound  his  own  personality  —  certainly  he  will 
do  so  at  the  cost  of  becoming  a  bore.  Consequently  we 
must  know  him  only  as  he  is  revealed  to  us  through  the 
medium  of  words,  action,  and  the  like.  This  appears  in 
Robinson  Crusoe  and  in  most  of  Defoe's  novels.  As  far 
as  Crusoe  is  a  personality  rather  than  a  personage  at  all, 
his  various  characteristics,  such  as  his  passion  for  adven- 
ture, his  simplicity,  kindliness,  and  loyalty  to  friends, 
are  made  evident  through  his  acts,  —  his  running  away 
from  home  to  undergo  the  dangers  of  a  seafaring  life, 
his  daily  reading  of  the  Bible,  his  treatment  of  his  pets, 
his  pains  to  pay  just  debts. 

There  is  about  this  first-person  method  a  certain  sim- 
ple effectiveness  and  a  distinct  consistency,  but  it  will 
scarcely  serve  the  purposes  of  a  narrative  that  seeks  to 
characterize  by  rather  careful  analysis,  to  acquaint  the 
reader  thoroughly  and  in  detail  with  the  personality  of 
the  main  personage.  It  would  not  be  adapted,  for  exam- 
ple, to  the  purposes  of  George  Eliot  or  to  the  modern 
psychologic  school  of  fiction.  Writers  of  this  sort  cannot 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  159 

leave  their  characterization  to  inference:  it  must  be  de- 
liberately set  forth  through  careful  exposition. 

The  difficulty  in  securing  a  satisfactory  characteriza- 
tion of  the  main  actor  by  this  autobiographic  method  is 
sometimes  met  by  a  slight  modification.  The  narrative 
is  committed  to  one  of  the  minor  actors  in  the  story,  who 
plays  Boswell  to  the  hero's  Johnson.  In  this  way  some  of 
the  disadvantages  already  indicated  are  obviated.  But 
others  arise.  The  author  can  indeed  secure  external  com- 
ment, deliberate  exposition,  if  need  be,  concerning  the 
personality  of  his  hero,  and  yet  not  sacrifice  the  unity 
that  belongs  to  the  device  of  the  single  narrator.  At  the 
same  time,  it*  may  still  be  argued  that  loss  in  distinct- 
ness of  characterization  results  from  representing  every- 
thing as  seen  through  the  eyes  of  a  single  actor. 

In  narrative  literature  outside  of  fiction  this  first-per- 
son device  is  common  in  letters,  diaries,  journals,  and 
autobiographic  discourse  generally.  Newman's  Apologia 
is  a  classic  instance  of  the  narrative  from  the  pen  of  the 
principal  personage;  Boswell's  Johnson,  of  the  modifi- 
cation wherein  a  subordinate  becomes  the  chronicler. 
Literature  of  this  order  possesses  a  twofold  value:  Pepys's 
Diary,  for  example,  serves  as  a  repository  for  important 
historic  facts  occurring  during  a  period  of  some  ten  years 
about  the  time  of  the  Restoration;  and  it  also  presents 
the  best  possible  data  to  the  student  who  seeks  to  under- 
stand the  individuality  of  Samuel  Pepys  himself.  As  a 
piece  of  characterization,  the  work  in  question  possesses 
distinct  unity  from  the  singleness  of  its  point  of  view; 
considered  as  a  congeries  of  historic  occurrences,  trivial 
and  significant  alike,  it  wrould  resolve  itself  into  a  study 
in  plot  structure. 

However,  a  writer  often  desires  to  present  his  hero, 
not  from  a  single  point  of  view,  but  as  standing  at  the 


160    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

centre,  the  focus,  of  various  avenues  of  approach.  This 
does  not  preclude  unity;  it  may  well  be  that  the 
truest  understanding  may  be  reached  through  the  con- 
sensus of  various  considerations.  Presentation  from  a 
single  point  of  view,  while  it  may  aid  unity,  may  yet  not 
bring  out  all  the  delicate  lights  and  shadows,  the  fine 
discriminations,  that  the  author  feels  to  be  essential  to 
the  characterization.  This  may  be  secured  in  a  va- 
riety of  ways.  It  may  come  through  an  enlargement 
of  the  method  already  indicated  in  connection  with 
Henry  Esmond;  that  is,  instead  of  confining  observation 
and  comment  to  one  person,  the  narrative  may  be  a 
composite  of  several  such  expositions.  Stevenson's 
Master  of  Ballantrae,  as  far  as  it  is  a  study  of  charac- 
ter, presents  by  this  method  a  fairly  complete  portrait 
of  the  Master  externally  and  psychologically  through 
the  narratives  of  Mackellar  and  of  the  Chevalier  de 
Burke.  Classic  and  highly  elaborate  examples  of  the 
same  method  are  to  be  found  in  the  epistolary  novels 
of  Samuel  Richardson.  Of  his  style  Professor  Raleigh 
writes :  — 

There  is  an  incessant  doubling  back  on  what  has  gone  before; 
first  a  letter  is  written  describing  "what  has  passed,"  this  letter 
is  communicated  by  its  recipient  to  a  third  character,  who 
comments  on  it,  while  the  story  waits.  This  constant  reper- 
cussion of  a  theme  or  event  produces  a  structure  of  story  very 
like  The  House  that  Jack  Built.  Each  writer  is  narrating  not 
events  alone,  but  his  or  her  reflections  on  previous  narrations 
of  the  same  events.  And  so,  on  the  next-to-nothing  that  hap- 
pened there  is  superimposed  the  young  lady  that  wrote  to  her 
friend  describing  it,  the  friend  that  approved  her  for  the  deco- 
rum of  the  manner  in  which  she  described  it,  the  admirable 
baronet  that  chanced  to  find  the  letter  approving  the  decorum 
of  the  young  lady,  the  punctilio  of  honour  that  prevented 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  161 

the  admirable  baronet  from  reading  the  letter  he  found,  and 
so  on.1 

It  is  apparent  that  in  this  method  there  is  both  value 
and  danger:  value,  from  the  completeness  of  detail  that 
belongs  to  the  many-sided  approach,  constituting  prac- 
tically an  intensive  as  well  as  an  extensive  study;  and 
danger,  from  the  possible  want  of  harmony  that  may  at- 
tend the  various  points  of  view.  It  is  also  apparent  that 
if  the  writer  elects  this  method  of  delineation  he  nrnst 
visualize  to  himself  very  clearly  in  advance  the  charac- 
ter under  consideration,  so  that  he  may  secure  conver- 
gence among  the  many  rays  that  he  turns  on  his  picture. 

The  author  may  assume  still  a  third  attitude  toward 
his  work,  —  the  wholly  external  point  of  view.  He  does 
not,  as  in  the  first  case,  identify  himself  with  the  princi- 
pal figure  of  the  narrative,  nor  does  he  assume  in  turn 
identity  with  the  various  figures,  and  thus,  as  one  of  the 
dramatis  personce,  forward  the  process  of  characteriza- 
tion. On  the  contrary,  he  stands  apart  from  the  action. 
As  the  creator  of  the  respective  personages  he  assumes 
the  role  of  omniscience.  Physical  barriers  are  to  him  as 
nothing;  to  his  all-seeing  vision  time  and  space  present 
no  obstacles.  He  can  see  Arthur  Donnithorne  hastily 
conceal  Hetty's  tell-tale  neckerchief  at  the  Hermitage, 
yet  Arthur  is  entirely  alone.  He  leaps  from  Rotherwood 
to  Sherwood  Forest,  from  Defarge's  wine-shop  to  Tell- 
son's  Bank,  from  Thomas  Newcome's  boyhood  at  Clap- 
ham  to  the  later  years  of  the  old  Colonel  in  India  —  and 
all  within  a  page.  Yet  he  draws  to  a  scale,  and  presents 
a  Cedric,  a  Carton,  or  a  Colonel  Newcome  essentially 
individual  and  one.  More  than  that,  the  heart  and  the 
inner  soul  are  open  pages  to  him;  secret  motives  and  un- 

1  Raleigh's  The  English  Novel.  By  permission  of  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons. 


162    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

spoken  thoughts  are  as  clear  as  the  day.  The  inner  strug- 
gle in  the  soul  of  Richard  Feverel  is  as  concrete  and  dis- 
tinct to  his  penetrating  vision  as  are  the  very  towers  of 
Raynham  Abbey  to  his  eye.  This  method  of  omniscience 
is  the  method  of  the  psychologist  and  of  the  historian 
combined.  Like  Gibbon  and  Hume,  the  narrator  follows 
the  movements  of  his  characters;  and  he  expounds  their 
innermost  personalities  with  the  analytic  exactness  of  a 
James  or  a  Meredith. 

This  method  may  be  called  external,  as  distinguished 
from  the  internal  method  whereby  the  writer,  in  present- 
ing his  characterization,  identifies  himself  with  one  or 
more  of  his  own  creations.  The  external  point  of  view, 
x  in  turn,  falls  into  two  subdivisions,  which  we  may  term 
^respectively  the  objective  and  the  subjective.  In  object- 
ive external  characterization  the  narrator's  own  person- 
ality is  entirely  out  of  sight.  The  reader  gets  no  hint  of 
approval  or  of  disapproval  of  the  characters  as  portrayed. 
The  author's  attitude  is  that  of  the  historian,  the  judi- 
cial, unbiassed  expounder  of  mere  facts.  It  is  the  attitude 
of  mind  commended  by  Macaulay  in  his  essay  on  Hal- 
lam's  Constitutional  History  of  England :  — 

His  [Hallam's]  work  is  eminently  judicial.  Its  whole  spirit 
is  that  of  the  bench,  not  that  of  the  bar.  He  sums  up  with  a 
calm,  steady  impartiality,  turning  neither  to  the  right  nor  to 
the  left,  glossing  over  nothing,  exaggerating  nothing,  while  the 
advocates  on  both  sides  are  alternately  biting  their  lips  to  hear 
their  conflicting  mis-statements  and  sophisms  exposed. 

This  attitude  of  absolute  aloofness  from  the  narra- 
tive, offering  no  hint  of  the  author's  own  inclinations, 
is  not  uncommon  with  writers  of  fiction.  The  Neck- 
lace or  The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat  offers  illustration.  In 
neither  of  these  stories  do  we  find  direct  indication  of 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  163 

Maupassant  or  of  Bret  Harte,  except  as  the  style  may 
reveal  here  and  there  certain  individual  turns  of  expres- 
sion. Of  the  author's  attitude  to  life,  whether  in  sym- 
pathy with  Madame  Loisel's  hard-won  compensation 
or  in  condemnation  of  Oakhurst's  career,  there  is  no 
word. 

A  modification  of  this  attitude  of  objective  omni-J 
science  is  to  be  found  in  those  narratives  in  which  the  nar- 
rator, while  not  revealing  his  own  individuality,  yet  lim- 
its his  range  of  vision  to  that  of  some  actor  in  the  story. 
To  take  a  very  simple  illustration,  —  when,  in  Flute  and 
Violin,  we  see  Parson  James  Moore  in  the  privacy  of  his 
own  room,  clad  in  the  evening  dress  of  some  bygone  day 
and  treading  the  measure  of  a*  minuet  to  the  music  of  his 
own  flute,  we  see  him  not  from  some  far  off  vantage 
point  of  unlimited  range,  but  through  the  slit  in  the  win- 
dow curtain  of  Arsena  Furnace's  room  across  the  way. 
This  modification  of  the  wider  field  of  view  presents 
indeed  a  restricted  range  of  characterization,  but  it 
may  often  happen  that  from  its  closer  identity  with  the 
setting  and  the  action  it  adds  dramatic  effect.  In  either 
case,  complete  unity  of  characterization  is  quite  possible. 
With  the  wide  range  of  unrestricted  vision,  as  in  The 
Necklace,  the  writer  is  at  liberty  to  include  or  to  exclude 
such  details  as  will  most  completely  portray  the  charac- 
ter in  accordance  with  his  conception.  In  the  other  case, 
illustrated  by  the  scene  from  Flute  and  Violin,  unity  of 
a  more  restricted  range  may  be  secured,  —  the  unity 
that  belongs  to  the  limited  horizon  of  a  single  person. 

In  contrast  to  this  objective  characterization  —  the 
point  of  view  by  which  the  individuality  of  the  creator  is 
kept    out    of    sight  —  is    subjective    characterization,  — - 
wherein  the  writer's  personality  is  frankly  expressed.  It 
is  still  external  in  the  sense  that  the  writer  does  not  iden- 


164    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

tify  himself  with  any  of  the  figures  in  the  narrative;  but 
now  at  each  interposition  of  himself  there  is  a  sudden 
change  in  the  current  of  the  action,  and  the  writer  for 
the  moment  occupies  the  scene  that  has  been  filled  by  his 
characters.  Thackeray's  proneness  to  assume  this  role  of 
the  mere  showman,  to  reveal  that  he  is  but  the  puller  of  the 
wires,  is  well  known,  and  to  many  readers  is  extremely  dis- 
agreeable. He  constantly  halts  the  narrative  and  obtrudes 
himself  in  a  way  so  personal  as  to  destroy  all  illusion  of 
reality.  The  following  passage  from  Vanity  Fair  is 
typical:  — 

I  warn  my  "kyind  friends,"  then,  that  I  am  not  going  to 
tell  a  story  of  harrowing  villainy  and  complicated  —  but,  as  I 
trust,  intensely  interesting  —  crime.  My  rascals  are  no  milk- 
and-water  rascals,  I  promise  you.  When  we  come  to  the  proper 
places  we  won't  spare  fine  language  —  No,  no!  But  when  we 
are  going  over  the  quiet  country  we  must  perforce  be  calm. 
A  tempest  in  a  slop  basin  is  absurd.  We  will  reserve  that  sort  of 
thing  for  the  mighty  ocean  and  the  lonely  midnight.  The  pre- 
sent Chapter  is  very  mild.  Others — but  we  will  not  anticipate. 

And,  as  we  bring  our  characters  forward,  I  will  ask  leave,  as 
a  man  and  a  brother,  not  only  to  introduce  them,  but  occa- 
sionally to  step  down  from  the  platform,  and  talk  about  them : 
if  they  are  good  and  kindly,  to  love  them  and  shake  them  by 
the  hand :  if  they  are  silly,  to  laugh  at  them  confidentially  in  the 
reader's  sleeve :  if  they  are  wicked  and  heartless,  to  abuse  them 
in  the  strongest  terms  which  politeness  admits  of. 

Otherwise  you  might  fancy  it  was  I  who  was  sneering  at  the 
practice  of  devotion,  which  Miss  Sharp  finds  so  ridiculous;  that 
it  was  I  who  laughed  good-humoredly  at  the  reeling  old  Silenus 
of  a  baronet  —  whereas  the  laughter  comes  from  one  who  has 
no  reverence  except  for  prosperity,  and  no  eye  for  anything 
beyond  success.  Such  people  there  are  living  and  flourishing  in 
the  world  —  Faithless,  Hopeless,  Charityless;  let  us  have  at 
them,  dear  friends,  with  might  and  main  Some  there  are,  and 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  165 

very  successful  too,  mere  quacks  and  fools :  and  it  was  to  combat 
and  expose  such  as  these,  no  doubt,  that  Laughter  was  made. 

While  it  is  the  feeling  of  many  modern  historians  that 
in  the  chronicling  of  facts  the  writer  should  efface  him- 
self and  present  a  purely  impersonal  statement  of  events, 
yet  in  characterization,  as  well  as  in  the  ordering  of  facts, 
the  historian  frequently  assumes  the  attitude  of  which 
we  have  seen  illustration  in  Thackeray.  Like  other  ex- 
perts, he  has  reached  his  own  theory  as  to  men  and  mo- 
tives, and  the  narrative  becomes,  for  the  moment,  an  ex- 
position of  that  theory.  Macaulay,  for  instance,  in  his 
characterization  of  great  men  usually  holds  a  brief 
either  for  the  defence  or  the  prosecution.  In  the  biog- 
raphy of  Macaulay  in  English  Men  of  Letters  the  au- 
thor says :  — 

He  allowed  himself  to  cultivate  strong  antipathies  towards 
a  number  of  persons  —  statesmen,  soldiers,  men  of  letters  — 
in  the  past,  and  he  pursued  them  with  a  personal  animosity 
which  could  hardly  have  been  exceeded  if  they  had  crossed 
him  in  the  club  or  the  House  of  Commons.  He  conceived 
a  contemptuous  view  of  their  characters;  his  strong  historical 
imagination  gave  them  the  reality  of  living  beings,  whom 
he  was  always  meeting  "in  the  corridors  of  Time,"  and  each 
encounter  embittered  his  hostility.  Marlborough,  Penn,  and 
Dundee  (in  his  History),  Boswell,  Impey,  and  Walpole  (in 
his  Essays) ,  always  more  or  less  stir  his  bile,  and  his  prejudice 
leads  him  into  serious  inaccuracies.1 

Of  course  it  is  to  be  said  that  in  the  method  of 
approach  now  under  consideration  there  is  certainly 
unity  of  characterization.  The  portraits  are  all  pre- 
sented from  one  consistent  point  of  view  —  the  au- 
thor's. They  are  therefore  marked  by  one  harmonious 

1  Morrison's  Macaulay  in  the  English  Men  of  Letters.  Published  by 
Harper  and  Brothers. 


166    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

tone  and  are  drawn  to  a  uniform  scale.  The  objec- 
tion that  many  readers  feel  to  the  method  —  impa- 
tience at  the  constant  interruptions  of  the  action  by 
the  showman's  obtrusion  of  himself  in  order  to  expound 
or  to  moralize  —  is  rhetorically  justified,  but  not  on  the 
ground  of  its  being  a  violation  of  unity  in  characteriza- 
/^tion.  It  is  the  unity  of  the  action  or  the  coherence  of  the 
*  plot  that  receives  an  unpleasant  check  at  these  moments. 
The  characterization  of  Tess,  for  example,  is  unified  ' 
throughout  by  the  attitude  that  the  author  takes  toward 
her  and  her  world.  It  is  his  purpose  to  depict  her  as  essen- 
tially a  pure  woman,  and  the  characterization  is  consist- 
ently carried  out  by  his  attitude  to  life  —  that  men  and 
women  are  but  the  playthings  of  an  ironic  Fate  having 
out  its  little  joke  with  them  and  throwing  them  aside  as 
mere  dross;  that  the  world  is  a  blighted  planet,  created 
and  forgotten  by  some  great  Intelligence  that  knows  aot 
itself  or  its  own  power.  This  disheartening  philosophy  is 
kept  persistently  and  consistently  before  the  reader,  and 
the  characterization  is  in  consequence  thoroughly  uni- 
fied. Yet  the  reader  is  conscious  of  the  author's  pres- 
ence throughout.  The  same  thing  is  true  of  Thackeray's 
disgust  with  the  sham-decent,  of  Macaulay's  delight  with 
modern  material  progress,  of  George  Eliot's  devotion  to 
the  altruistic  formula,  and  to  Hume's  consistent  belittle- 
ment  of  Christianity.  In  each  of  them  we  feel  constantly 
the  personality  of  the  writer  as  well  as  that  of  the  indi- 
vidual under  consideration,  and  this  very  consistency 
of  attitude  toward  the  subject  secures  unity  of  charac- 
terization. 

In  order  to  objectify  in  concrete  form  what  has  been 
said  regarding  point  of  view,  we  may,  by  way  of  illustra- 
tion, examine  in  some  detail  Flute  and  Violin. 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  167 

During  the  first  episode,  the  author  does  not  obtrude 
himself  to  any  extent.  Save  for  a  pervasive  note  of  ten- 
derness toward  the  Reverend  James  Moore,  the  chapter 
as  a  whole  illustrates  the  attitude  of  the  historian :  the 
point  of  view  is  that  of  omniscience.  The  writer  pre- 
sents the  parson  as  moving  among  his  parishioners, 
seen  of  all  men,  and  again  in  the  privacy  of  his  own 
room  where  not  even  the  prying  eye  of  curiosity  could 
reach  him.  We  even  know  the  thoughts  that  run  through 
the  musician's  mind  as  in  the  darkness  he  blows  the  roll- 
call  of  his  wandering  faculties  and  dismisses  them  for 
the  night.  In  only  a  single  passage  are  we  aware  of  the 
writer's  own  personality,  —  when  in  alluding  to  the 
parson's  posthumous  fame  he  exclaims,  "How  many  of 
our  fellow  creatures  are  learned  without  being  amiable, 
amiable  without  being  pious,  and  pious  without  having 
beautiful  manners."  In  this  mild  bit  of  cynicism  the 
reader  catches  distinctly  the  voice  of  Mr.  Allen,  who 
otherwise  keeps  in  the  background. 

Episode  n,  as  a  whole,  continues  the  all-seeing  point 
of  view  that  characterizes  the  first  part  of  the  story ;  but 
with  noteworthy  modifications.  The  reader  suddenly  in 
the  third  paragraph  finds  himself  following  the  parson's 
actions  from  the  point  of  view  of  Arsena  and  the  Widow 
Spurlock  on  the  floor  below  his  room,  and  afterwards 
from  the  widow's  point  of  view  alone.  A  few  para- 
graphs later  this  shifts  to  Arsena 's  window  across  the 
way.  From  one  or  the  other  of  these  two  places  of 
vantage  we  follow  him  until  the  close  of  the  section, 
when  the  narrator  once  more  resumes  the  role  of  om- 
niscience. 

There  would  seem  to  be  in  this  portion  of  the  narra- 
tive some  confusion  as  to  the  positions  from  which  the 
parson  is  characterized,  —  a  want  of  consistency  arising 


168    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

from  a  mingling  of  the  omniscient  and  the  personal  points 
of  view.  But  this  seeming  inconsistency  is  not  essential. 
The  attitude  of  omniscience  is  in  reality  maintained 
throughout.  The  plot  is  made  to  follow  the  movements 
of  the  parson's  two  admirers,  and  thus  the  limited  hori- 
zon of  Arsena  Furnace  and  the  Widow  Spurlock  is  only 
apart  of  the  wider  view  with  which  the  action  begins,  and 
there  is  no  such  interruption  as  would  occur  if  suddenly 
the  author  were  to  pass  from  the  external  to  the  in- 
ternal, from  the  objective  to  the  subjective. 

In  the  third  episode  the  characterization  passes  from 
the  Reverend  James  Moore  to  the  little  cripple,  David. 
At  the  outset  it  would  seem  that  the  narrator  portrays 
the  boy  from  the  point  of  view  of  some  passer-by  who 
observes  him  as  he  sits  by  the  roadside  lost  in  the  ec- 
stasy of  his  imaginary  music.  But  when  the  parson  ap- 
proaches it  is  apparent  that  the  outlook  is  wider,  for  we 
are  informed  as  to  the  subject-matter  of  the  good  man's 
prayers;  we  see  the  very  thoughts  that  pass  through  his 
mind  as  he  catches  sight  of  David  and  thinks  of  the  death- 
bed three  years  before,  when  his  dying  friend  had  com- 
mitted to  his  care  the  fatherless  boy;  and  we  look,  too, 
into  David's  mind  as  the  parson  passes  on,  as  also 
again  later  when  the  boy  estimates  the  chances  of  his  ever 
coming  into  possession  of  Tom's  violin,  and  still  later 
when  he  is  filled  with  intense  longing  to  see  the  won- 
ders of  Ollendorf  and  Mason's  elegant  collection  of  wax 
figures.  It  is  apparent  from  all  this  insight  that  the 
writer  is  still  presenting  his  characters  from  the  omni- 
scient point  of  view,  and  is  standing  quite  apart  from  the 
characterization. 

As  far  as  section  iv  can  be  called  a  study  in  charac- 
terization at  all,  it  has  to  do  with  young  Leuba,  an 
unprepossessing  figure.  The  self -absorption  that  seems 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  169 

to  be  this  young  gentleman's  most  distinctive  trait  is 
presented  through  the  indirect  medium  of  his  words 
and  actions.  We  may  assume  that  the  author  still  main- 
tains the  attitude  of  omniscience :  it  would  appear  that 
he  can  read  in  Tom's  mind  the  motives  that  actuate  him 
when  he  accepts  David's  apology  for  interrupting  the 
rendition  of  "O  Thou  Fount  of  every  Blessing"  for  the 
sake  of  the  accompanying  praise  of  his  masterly  exe- 
cution. Still,  however,  the  portraiture  is  wholly  ob- 
jective. 

The  episode  chronicled  in  the  next  section,  the  fifth,  is 
largely  emotional  in  its  purpose,  being  primarily  in- 
tended to  arouse  sympathy  for  David  in  his  pathetic 
longing  to  enjoy  what  all  his  friends  seemed  able  to  en- 
joy. Within  it,  however,  are  two  or  three  touches  of  fur- 
ther character  elaboration,  especially  in  the  opening 
paragraph  where  the  writer  maintains  the  attitude  of 
one  who  can  penetrate  the  inner  self  and  can  read  the 
heart.  For  a  moment,  in  the  ejaculation  "  Poor  little  fel- 
low ! "  he  almost  rises  above  the  coldly  objective  level  to 
that  of  subjective  interpretation;  but  the  change  in  the 
point  of  view  is  of  the  slightest  and  only  momentary. 

It  would  seem  that  the  sixth  section  were  given 
over  to  the  advancement  of  the  plot  rather  than  to  the 
elaboration  of  the  parson's  character,  but  for  the  sake 
of  the  analysis  we  may  assume  that  Mr.  Moore's  ela- 
tion and  temporary  forgetfulness  of  his  little  ward  do 
definitely  advance  our  insight  into  his  personality.  We 
may  therefore  consider  the  author's  method  of  approach. 
We  see  the  parson  from  at  least  seven  different  angles :  on 
the  street,  ejaculating  to  himself  a  silent  prayer  against 
undue  exaltation  of  spirit;  alone  with  the  widow  within 
the  new  church,  where  we  may  be  sure  that  no  eye  can  see 
them;  again,  on  the  street,  transported  quite  out  of  him- 


170    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

self  and  forming  his  bold  resolution  in  case  of  any  possible 
repetition  of  his  recent  experience;  then,  in  the  store  with 
Mr.  Leuba,  where  we  have  no  reason  to  believe  that  any 
third  person  was  witness  to  the  music-dealer's  unwonted 
generosity;  later  still,  at  the  dinner;  after  that,  with  his 
company  of  "  soiled  lambs  "  at  the  wonderful  exhibition; 
and  finally,  in  his  room,  as  already  portrayed  in  the 
opening  episode.  The  parson  in  all  of  these  situations, 
save  at  Mr.  Leuba's  house  and  at  the  Museum,  is  por- 
trayed as  by  one  whose  vision  is  unlimited :  we  penetrate 
into  the  very  sanctuary  of  the  clergyman's  secret 
thoughts  ;  the  walls  of  the  new  church  present  no  bar- 
riers; we  pass  into  Mr.  Leuba's  house  unseen.  Not 
until  the  closing  paragraph,  however,  is  there  any  hint 
of  the  author,  but  there  he  comes  forward  into  the 
position  of  showman  and  speaks  subjectively  in  his  own 
person :  — 

Is  it  possible  that  on  this  day  the  Reverend  James  Moore 
had  driven  the  ancient,  rusty,  creaky  chariot  of  his  faculties 
too  near  the  sun  of  love? 

The  seventh  chapter  is,  like  the  fourth,  primarily  for 
the  further  elucidation  of  the  plot,  and  yet  it  contains  no 
little  characterization  of  David,  both  by  direct  and  indi- 
rect means.  The  point  of  view  follows  the  little  cripple's 
movements  from  the  time  of  his  rising  in  the  morning 
until  his  arrival  home  in  the  evening,  feverish  and  heart- 
broken. At  times  it  would  seem  that  the  narrator  were 
a  bystander,  observing  the  boy's  actions,  as  at  the  door 
of  the  Museum  when  the  temptation  and  the  fall  oc- 
curred. Again,  it  almost  seems  as  if  the  author  were 
causing  the  story  to  pause  and  were  speaking  in  propria 
persona  by  way  of  comment,  as  when  he  queries  of  the 
thoughts  passing  through  the  mind  of  the  boy  concealed 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  171 

in  the  clump  of  iron- weeds  by  the  abandoned  rope- 
walk. 

Slowly  the  moments  dragged  themselves  along.  Of  what  was 
he  thinking?  Of  his  mother?  Of  the  parson?  Of  the  violin  that 
would  now  never  be  his?  Of  that  wonderful  sorrowful  face 
which  he  had  seen  in  the  painting?  The  few  noises  of  the  little 
town  grew  very  faint,  the  droning  of  the  bumblebee  on  the 
purple  tufts  of  the  weed  overhead  very  loud,  and  louder  still 
the  beating  of  his  heart  against  the  green  grass  as  he  lay  on  his 
side,  with  his  head  on  his  blue  cap  and  his  cheek  in  his  hand. 

But  we  may  take  the  chapter  in  its  entirety  as  from  the 
view-point  of  one  to  whom  everything  is  known.  We 
catch  his  murmured  thoughts  as  he  sees  the  parson  pass 
by  with  his  band  of  young  proteges ;  we  know  the  thoughts 
of  shame  and  terror  that  inspire  him  as  he  escapes  from 
the  town;  we  see  him  —  although  it  is  dark  —  peeping 
through  the  palings  at  the  patient  mother  within  the 
house.  The  point  of  view  is  still  that  of  omniscience,  and 
we  may  fairly  view  the  interrogations  as  to  what  were  his 
thoughts  while  he  lay  hidden  in  isolation,  as  a  mere  rhe- 
torical device  and  as  no  indication  that  we  could  not 
penetrate  his  heart,  if  we  would. 

In  the  closing  episode  we  have,  perhaps,  the  most  effect- 
ive characterization  of  the  Reverend  James  Moore  to  be 
found  in  the  story.  His  stricken  conscience,  his  anxiety 
regarding  the  possible  moral  motives  underlying  the  boy's 
desire  to  visit  the  Museum,  his  cold  and  severe  abnega- 
tion of  future  marital  possibilities,  —  these  and  all  the 
indications  of  the  parson's  chastened  heart  are  revealed 
to  the  reader  as  by  one  to  whom  all  secrets  are  known. 
Upon  completing  the  story,  we  feel  that  we  have  sounded 
the  very  personality  of  the  Reverend  James  Moore:  all 
'the  details  of  the  action  have  contributed  to  the  exposi- 


172    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

tion;  and  the  various  contributing  elements  have  com- 
bined to  produce  a  consistent  and  complete  individu- 
ality. Much  of  the  consistency  and  general  unity  of  ef- 
fect has  come  from  the  sustained  point  of  view,  —  that 
of  the  omniscient  observer  to  whom  all  motives  are  as 
clear  as  outward  acts,  but  who  himself  remains  unseen. 

Coherence 

Unity  of  characterization,  then,  is  found  in  consist- 
ency of  portrayal,  in  the  subordination  of  the  various 
constituent  elements  to  the  individuality  as  a  whole.  Co- 
herence of  characterization  is  secured  by  consistency  of 
development.  Unity  has  to  do  with  the  complete  person- 
ality; coherence,  with  the  successive  steps  that  contri- 
bute to  that  personality.  In  one 'sense,  unity  is  static; 
coherence,  progressive.  Coherence  of  characterization, 
then,  would  seem  to  be  best  exemplified  in  those  narra- 
tives where  personality  grows  with  the  successive  inci- 
dents that  constitute  the  action.  It  therefore  finds  its 
most  perfect  expression  in  the  novel,  which,  as  will  be 
shown  later,  is  becoming  more  and  more  recognized  as  a 
record  of  personality. 

Personality  is  not  born  in  a  moment;  it  is  developed. 
Owing  to  the  exigencies  of  limited  space,  the  item,  and 
even  episodic  narrative  as  found  in  the  short-story,  offer 
scant  field  for  character  evolution.  And  at  this  point  one 
should  differentiate  between  character  exposition  and 
character  evolution.  In  the  one  case  the  narrator  eluci- 
dates personality  as  it  is;  in  the  other  he  traces  it  as  it 
grows.  In  The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat,  for  example,  the 
characters  of  the  principal  personages  are  already  es- 
tablished when  the  personages  themselves  are  intro- 
duced to  the  reader.  Uncle  Billy  is  already  essentially 
selfish  and  villainous;  the  events  following  the  banish-' 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  173 

ment  from  the  Flat  do  not  change  him.  Oakhurst 
and  the  Duchess  are  already  outcasts,  but  are  differen- 
tiated from  Uncle  Billy  in  their  possession  of  an  under- 
lying humanity  that  a  common  danger  and  unsuspect- 
ing innocence  bring  to  the  surface.  It  cannot  be  said 
that  they  are  developed  by  the  peril  of  the  storm  and  by 
the  simplicity  of  Piney  and  Tom.  Indeed  the  story  is  a 
revelation  of  character  rather  than  a  narrative  of  de- 
velopment in  character.  Now  if  The  Outcasts  of  Poker 
Flat  be  placed  by  the  side  of  The  Necklace,  an  essential 
difference  between  the  two  narratives  will  at  once  be 
evident.  The  Necklace  is  an  instance,  to  be  sure,  of 
the  short-story  in  very  brief  form,  but  observe  the 
personalities  of  the  principal  actors.  At  the  outset 
Madame  Loisel  is  a  pretty  girl,  —  superficial,  ambitious 
of  admiration,  loving  above  all  else  the  delicacies  and 
luxuries  of  social  life.  After  a  few  brief  pages,  beauty  and 
delicacy  give  way  to  frowsiness,  coarseness,  and  depres- 
sion. The  young  woman  whose  dream  had  been  of 
flattery  and  gaiety  now,  with  red  hands  and  skirts 
askew,  washes  the  floor  and  talks  in  strident  tones  with 
the  neighbors  over  their  work.  Yet  all  this  change  comes 
naturally  enough,  though  in  brief  space.  To  be  sure,  the 
traits  that  lead  the  heroine  to  sacrifice  ambition  in  the 
determination  to  pay  her  just  debts  must  have  been 
latent  from  the  outset,  but,  under  the  unhappy  conse- 
quences that  followed  the  borrowing  of  Madame  Fores- 
tier's  necklace,  the  personality  of  Madame  Loisel  dis- 
tinctly changes,  develops  into  something  new,  —  all  in 
a  manner  totally  unlike  the  case  of  Uncle  Billy  and 
Oakhurst.  In  the  sequence  whereby  this  change  is 
brought  about  without  offence  to  the  reader's  judgment 
lies  the  coherence  of  the  narrative  as  far  as  the  element 
of  characterization  is  concerned. 


174    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

Almost  any  novel  in  which  character  rather  than  ac- 
tion is  the  motive  offers  more  striking  illustration  of  the 
same  structural  principle.  In  Silas  Marner,  for  exam- 
ple, Silas  himself,  Godfrey  Cass,  and  Eppie  show  char- 
acter evolution  under  the  stress  respectively  of  changing  , 
environment,  blighted  hope,  and  maturing  years.  In  Si- 
las at  least  four  distinct  and  successive  stages  of  charac- 
ter growth  are  distinguishable:  (1)  religious  enthusiasm; 
(2)  miserly  isolation;  (3)  parental  anxiety;  (4)  peaceful 
age.  Yet  the  passage  from  one  stage  to  the  other  is  ac- 
complished without  offence  to  the  reader's  sense  of  con- 
viction. 

But  sequence  is  not  impossible  in  those  narratives 
where  the  various  episodes  are  separated  by  distinct 
lapses  of  time,  the  transition  from  one  to  the  other  not 
being  bridged.  To  illustrate  from  the  drama:  any  one 
who  ever  witnessed  Mansfield's  Beau  Brummel  will 
realize  how  it  is  possible  to  pass  from  one  period  of  a 
hero's  life  to  another,  over  the  chasm  of  many  years, 
and  yet  not  lose  the  sequence  that  makes  them  essen- 
tially parts  of  one  whole.  The  scene  in  which  the  hero 
appears  at  the  close,  bowed  down  by  years  and  priva- 
tion, is  far  enough  in  time  from  that  in  which  he  has 
just  appeared,  vigorous  and  in  the  height  of  his  powers; 
yet  the  two  are  entirely  congruous  and  coherent. 

This  same  example  illustrates  also  the  principle  that 
unity  and  coherence  of  characterization  go  hand  in  hand. 
The  successive  stages  of  the  evolution,  although  not  fol- 
lowing, it  may  be,  in  uninterrupted  series,  must  be  so  es- 
sentially consistent  one  with  another  that  the  reader  will 
feel  the  underlying  one-ness.  Whenever  he  hesitates  and 
questions  the  premises  underlying  the  characterization 
the  thread  of  development  is  broken  and  coherence  is 
lost.  The  characterization  of  Uriah  Heep  in  David  Cop- 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  175 

perfield  would  offer  an  illustration  in  point.  From  the 
time  when  we  first  see  his  cadaverous  face  at  the  small 
window  of  Mr.  Wickfield's  house  until  he  is  ushered 
into  our  presence  as  "Number  Twenty -Seven"  in  Mr. 
Creakle's  establishment  of  converted  criminals,  Uriah 
Heep  is  a  consistent  hypocrite.  At  each  successive  epi- 
sode of  the  story,  separated  as  many  of  them  are  by  con- 
siderable intervals  of  time,  he  is  true  to  his  original  char- 
acterization. But  there  is  more  than  mere  unity  in  the 
portrait.  He  grows.  ^As  junior  member  of  the  firm  of 
Wickfield  and  Heep,  he  is  a  deeper  scoundrel,  a  more  fin- 
ished villain,  than  when  he  was  a  mere  clerk.  His  career 
is  climactic  and  exemplifies  uninterrupted  moral  degener- 
ation. Coherence  of  characterization,  as  well  as  unity,  is 
a  distinct  rhetorical  quality  of  the  narrative. 

It  is  this  unity-in-coherence  that  often  baffles  the  ama- 
teur in  narrative  writing.  He  rapidly  passes  from  one 
stage  to  another  in  the  career  of  his  hero,  but  we  are  not 
conscious  of  the  thread  of  connection,  and  the  result  is 
a  series  of  distinct  personalities.  This  is  true  of  the  boy- 
ish attempt  already  quoted  (pp.  128-31),  where  among 
many  faults  entire  loss  of  character  sequence  is  note- 
worthy in  the  gaps  that  mark  the  development  of  the 
hero.  If  he  is  indeed  "crazy"  at  the  outset,  then  the 
interest  that  in  the  second  part  should  attend  the  pa- 
thetic (?)  picture  of  a  mind  shattered  by  grief  and  disap- 
pointed love  fails  to  be  aroused,  and  we  have  merely  the 
ravings  of  a  maniac.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  the  assertion 
of  the  hero's  crazed  condition  is  merely  hyperbolical  and 
if,  in  reality,  the  isolated  life  is  the  consequence  of  Marie's 
obduracy,  then  the  changes  of  three  years  —  the  tran- 
sition from  a  youth  strong  and  vigorous  to  an  old  man 
with  white  hair,  sunken  cheeks,  and  all  the  external  signs 
of  senile  decrepitude  —  are  inartistically  sudden.  In  the 


176    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

hero  of  part  n  there  is  no  logical,  no  natural  connection 
with  the  hero  of  the  opening  paragraphs.  With  this  crude 
narrative  contrast  Rip  Van  Winkle,  wherein  the  bond  of 
coherence  is  clear  enough  between  the  good-natured  but 
lazy  village-idler  and  the  aged  pilgrim  that  tells  his  tale  to 
every  stranger  at  Doolittle's  Hotel.  We  are  not  conscious 
of  jolt  or  jar,  even  though  the  story  moves  over  a  gap  of 
twenty  years. 

Of  course  even  the  most  extended  and  complete  narra- 
tive in  which  character  plays  a  part  must  be  of  the  epi- 
tome order.  The  story  of  a  personality  whose  evolution 
demands  perhaps  two  generations  must  be  condensed 
within  the  limits  of  a  single  volume.  The  gradual 
changes  of  even  ten  years,  as  in  The  Necklace,  must  be 
narrowed  down  to  as  many  pages.  Selection,  therefore,  is 
of  the  first  importance,  and  in  his  ability  to  choose  the 
data  that  determine  a  changing  personality  lies  no  small 
part  of  the  writer's  genius.  The  gradation  must  be  nat- 
ural, smooth,  convincing. 

The  extent  to  which  character  portrayal  in  narrative 
writing  may  be  carried  varies  from  the  simple  account  in 
which  the  actors  are  merely  presented  without  elabora- 
tion —  as  in  the  newspaper  item — to  those  novels  that 
are  practically  elaborate  studies  in  psychologic  exegesis. 
In  all  forms  of  historic  composition  this  expository  ex- 
treme is  practically  impossible  on  account  of  the  very 
purpose  of  the  narrator,  —  the  chronicling  of  actual 
events.  The  narrative  may  pause  from  time  to  time 
while  character  is  elaborated  for  the  better  understand- 
ing of  the  facts  under  consideration,  —  as,  for  example, 
when  Green  pauses  in  his  Short  History  of  the  English  Peo- 
ple to  present  his  famous  picture  of  Queen  Elizabeth  in 
feature  and  character,  —  but  the  reader  always  feels 
that  the  portraiture  is  but  a  pause  in  the  more  serious 


THE  AGENT  OF  THE  ACTION  177 

business  of  the  narrative.  In  fiction,  however,  character- 
ization plays  a  relatively  more  important  part  than  in 
the  actual  chronicle,  and  the  extent  to  which  character- 
ization may  be  carried  is  well  illustrated  in  such  typical 
studies  of  personality  as  Daniel  Deronda,  or  The  Egoist, 
or  Helbeck  of  Bannisdale.  These  come  close  to  what  Mar- 
ion Crawford  has  included  in  the  term  "  novels-with-a- 
purpose,"  and  of  them  he  says:  — 

Probably  no  one  denies  that  the  first  object  of  the  novel  is  to 
amuse  and  interest  the  reader.  But  it  is  often  said  that  the 
novel  should  instruct  as  well  as  afford  amusement,  and  the 
"  novel- with-a-purpose  "  is  the  realization  of  this  idea.  We 
might  invent  a  better  expression  than  that  clumsy  translation 
of  the  neat  German  "  Tendenz-Roman."  Why  not  compound 
the  words  and  call  the  odious  thing  a  "purpose-novel"?  The 
purpose-novel,  then,  proposes  to  serve  two  masters,  besides 
procuring  a  reasonable  amount  of  bread  and  butter  for  its 
writer  and  publisher.  It  proposes  to  escape  from  my  definition 
of  the  novel  in  general  and  make  itself  an  "intellectual  moral 
lesson"  instead  of  an  "intellectual  artistic  luxury."1 

Applying  the  principle  underlying  this  judgment  to 
the  rhetorical  aspects  of  narrative  writing  as  exempli- 
fied in  recent  psychological  fiction,  we  may  well  ask 
whether  many  of  the  so-called  "modern  novels"  do 
not  belong  essentially  to  the  domain  of  exposition 
rather  than  to  that  of  narration. 

1  Crawford's  The  Novel:  What  it  is.  Copyright,  1893.  By  per- 
mission of  The  Macmillan  Company. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION:  PLOT 

DEFINITIONS 

THE  word  plot  as  used  in  connection  with  narrative  writ- 
ing has  two  distinct,  but  allied,  meanings.  Etymolog- 
ically  it  is  associated  with  the  Anglo-Saxon  plot,  "apiece 
of  ground,"  and  in  the  allied  sense,  "  a  ground  plan,"  it  sig- 
nifies no  more  than  the  clear  conception  of  his  work  in  its 
totality  as  it  exists  in  the  mind  of  the  composer,  or  the 
sense  of  completeness  and  unified  purpose  of  which  the 
reader  is  conscious  as  he  reviews  the  finished  work.  Thus"? 
the  biographer  "plots"  his  composition  when  he  selects 
the  specific  aspects  of  his  subject  that  his  finished  work 
is  to  develop,  —  deepened  character,  perhaps,  or  the  ul- 
ate  attainment  of  an  ideal;  the  historian  "plots" 
his  narrative  when  he  deliberately  shapes  the  story  of 
chronicled  events,  unifying  his  data  and  making  for  a 
definite  goal,  —  to  demonstrate,  it  may  be,  how  a  true  de- 
mocracy has  gradually  been  evolved  from  original  abso- 
lutism or  how  a  national  tradition  has  been  an  under- 
lying influence  in  the  growth  of  a  state.  In  accord  with 
this  principle  it  was  that  Dr.  Allen  "plotted"  his  bio- 
graphy of  Phillips  Brooks,  and  Bancroft  planned  his 
well-known  history  of  the  United  States. 

The  student  of  rhetorical  principles  will  see  that  in    N 
this  sense  of  the  word  plot  is  merely  unity  of  purpose  com- 
bined with  preliminary  outline  or  plan.  It  is  to  the  nar- 
rator what  the  brief  is  to  the  forensic  writer.  The  de- 
bater in  advance  sees  his  goal,  grasps  the  exact  proposi- 


THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION          179 

tion  the  truth  of  which  he  wishes  to  impress  upon  his 
judges.  The  ordering  of  his  proof,  the  proper  place  of  re- 
futation, the  relative  weights  of  various  arguments,  their 
logical  relations,  —  all  these  he  must  appreciate  at  the 
outset,  and  upon  the  "plot, "or plan,  thus  formulated  he 
bases  his  ultimate  ^ag£eal  with  all  its  persuasive  enrich- 
ment. Similarly  the  narrator  sets  in  due  order  his  vari-N^ 
ous  episodes,  planning  in  advance  the  most  effective  se- 
quence, the  repression  of  the  climax  in  the  interests  of 
suspense,  the  adjustment  of  cause  and  effect,  the  corre- 
lation  of  similar  forces,  the  development  of  setting  and 
character,  and  the  ultimate  revelation  of  the  end  toward 
which  all  parts  in  turn  have  contributed. 

Some  writers  modify  their  method  to  the  extent  that, 
(given  a  starting-point,  they  allow  the  plan  to  unroll  it- 
fself  as  the  action  advances,  and  "plot"  is  not  apparent 
until  toward  the  end.  Thus  it  often  was,  in  considerable 
degree,  with  Dickens  and  Scott,  natural  story-tellers 
both;  yet  the  reader  is  aware  of  a  unity  of  conception 
that  permeates  the  finished  whole.  When,  for  example, 
one  looks  back  over  the  course  of  Martin  Chuzzlewit  or 
Nicholas  Nickleby,  one  realizes  how  an  apparently  loose 
narrative  is  in  reality  a  mosaic  of  thoughts,  words,  and 
acts,  at  times  ofseeming  insignificance,  yet  combining  to 
form  a  pattern  fairly  complete,  unified,  homogeneous. 
And  even  so  rambling  a  story  as  the  adventures  of 
the  Pickwick  Club  presents  in  retrospect  something  of 
method  and  coordination  of  parts.  This  completeness 
constitutes  what  etymologically  may  be  called  the  "plot " 
of  the  narrative. 

Still  other  writers  seem  to  have  no  distinct  formula-  - 
tion,  no  conception  of  work  unified  in  its  entirety.  They 
take  up  successively  the  various  ideas  suggested  by  the 
immediate  incident  of  the  moment,  but  they  seem  to 


180    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

make  for  no  definite  goal.  They  apparently  have  as  much 
difficulty  in  rounding  their  material  into  a  well-defined 
conclusion  as  Defoe  had  in  closing  out  his  bi-weekly  Re- 
view, when,  after  having  pronounced  its  valedictory  on 
at  least  two  occasions,  he  proceeded  to  advertise  its  re- 
appearance as  a  tri -weekly.  The  reader  of  Bourrienne's 
Memoirs  of  Napoleon  is  offended  by  this  seeming  vague- 
ness of  concentration,  and  questions  the  plot  signifi- 
cance of  data  as  they  are  introduced.  In  the  domain 
of  fiction,  Smollett  frequently  betrays  the  same  ten- ' 
dency;  instead  of  having  in  mind  a  well-formulated 
plan  of  action  he  appears  to  write  with  the  purpose  of 
merely  filling  space,  and  to  stop  only  when  he  has  reached 
a  prescribed  number  of  pages,  not  because  he  has  ar- 
rived at  any  definite  conclusion. 

But,  perhaps  through  association  with  another  word, 
complot,  the  term  "plot"  has  taken  to  itself  a  second  sig- 
nification. Complot  suggests  the  idea  of  complication 
(Latin:  complicare),  as  of  strands  woven  together  into  a 
pattern .  And  in  this  sense  we  find  the  word  "  plot "  con- 
veying the  generally  accepted  idea  of  intricacy  of  detail, 
of  a  complex  pattern  made  up  of  various  threads  of  action 
combining  in  ultimate  unity  of  design.  Using  the  word 
with  this  signification,  one  says  of  a  story  that  it  is  well 
written  but  has  no  real  "plot."  Being  interpreted,  this 
signifies  that  the  narrative  is  simple  in  construction,  not  a 
complex  tissue  of  entanglements  leading  to  an  unexpected 
denouement.  In  this  everyday  sense  biography  would 
possess  little  or  no  "plot";  a  detective  story,  admirable 
"plot";  a  history  of  the  Jewish  people  would  be  but  a 
simple  chronicle  without  complication,  whereas  the  story 
of  Haman  and  Mordecai  in  the  court  of  Ahasuerus  would, 
because  of  its  involved  narrative  structure,  be  well  "plot- 
ted" and  allied  to  the  short-story  or  even  to  the  drama. 


THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION          181 

Now  if  we  revert  to  the  definition  of  narration,  we 
shall  see  the  exact  aspect  of  "plot"  with  which  we  must 
be  concerned.  If  narration  be  the  arrangement  in  chron- 
ological order  o^thexsiiccessiye  details  that  constitute  an 
event,  we  have  thus  far  concerned  ourselves  with  what 
are,  to  a  certain  degree,  narrative  accessories:  that  is  to 
say,  setting  has  to  do  with  the  background  against  which 
the  action  is  projected  f or  its  greater  effectiveness;  char- 
acter concerns  the  agents  by  "and  through  whom  the  ac- 
tion is  presented.  There  is  still  left  the  ordering  of  the 
action  itself  as  presented  by  the  characters  against  the 
background.  Complicated  this  action  may  be  or  simple, 
but  before  it  can  be  presented  it  must  be  intelligently  set 
in  order,  and  this  ordering  of  the  events,  this  deliberate 
planning  of  the  constituent  details  of  the  action  con- 
stitutes what  rhetorically  is  known  as  plot. 

A  little  consideration  will  show  that  in  fictitious  narra- 
tive there  is  greater  likelihood  of  complication  in  the  artic- 
ulation of  plot  elements,  in  the  ordering  of  the  details  of 
action,  than  in  the  chronicling  of  mere  facts.  This  may 
be  because  in  veritable  narrative,  —  as  exemplified  in 
historical  or  biographical  literature,  —  there  is  more  of 
the  expository  process  of  setting  forth  facts  whose  virtue 
is  in  themselves.  The  attitude  of  mind  with  which  one 
approaches  a  biography  of  Charles  Dickens  is  radically 
unlike  that  with  which  one  approaches  the  story  of  Da- 
vid Copperfield's  career.  And  the  difference  proceeds 
from  the  fact  that  literature  has  two  aspects,  —  the  in- 
tellectual and  the  emotional,  —  and  because  these  vary 
in  proportion  in  different  types  of  composition.  The 
reader  of  the  biography  is  actuated  mainly  by  the  intel- 
lectual impulse;  he  seeks  a  record  of  actual  occurrences. 
The  biography,  to  be  sure,  will  not  rank  as  a  work  of  true 
literary  merit  unless  it  possesses  something  of  emotional 


182    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

appeal,  —  all  literature  must  possess  that, — but  in  the 
biography  the  intellectual  impulse  will  be  uppermost. 
In  other  words,  the  biography  is  largely  an  elucidation 
for  purposes  of  information.  Consequently  clearness  is 
the  primary  essential,  and  plot  will  be  limited  in  great 
degree  to  the  systematic  presentation  of  facts  in  the  or- 
der most  effective  for  purposes  of  lucidity;  and  this  is 
naturally  the  simple  order  of  occurrence.  In  the  novel, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  whole  situation  is  different.  It  is  1 
no  longer  intellectual,  but  emotional  interest  that  is  I 
uppermost.  The  reader  does  not  follow  the  fortunes  of 
David  and  Steerforth  and  Peggotty  in  order  to  estab- 
lish facts,  but  from  interest  in  their  various  adventures, 
sympathy  with  Dickens's  attitude  to  life,  admiration  of 
his  wonderful  insight  into  character,  or  from  some  other 
emotional  appeal.  Clearness  is  no  longer  so  much  the  es- 
sential quality  as  are  those  elements  that  contribute  to 
sustained  interest,  which  is  always  piqued  by  complica- 
tion, by  suspense,  by  mystery.  It  is  not  difficult  to  see, 
therefore,  that  in  planning  the  scheme  of  action  the  writer  - 
of  what  we  may  call  emotional  narrative  is  more  likely 
to  resort  to  complexity  of  plot  structure  than  is  the  writer 
of  intellectual  narrative. 

» 

RHETORICAL  ELEMENTS  IN  PLOT  STRUCTURE 

In  the  various  phases  of  narrative  writing  4unity  and 
coherence  have  already  been  pointed  out  as  the  two  most 
essential  rhetorical  qualities ;  in  plot  structure  their  rel- 
ative importance  remains  unchanged,  although  to  them 
emphasis  must  be  added.  To  these  clearness,  proportion, 
and  selection  are  so  closely  allied  that  they  may  be  con- 
sidered as  they  naturally  arise  in  the  discussion  of  the 
more  important  elements. 


THE  ORDERING  OF    THE  ACTION          183 

Unity 
(a)  Definition  of  Plot  Unity 

Unity  of  plot  structure,  like  all  phases  of  this  particu- 
lar quality,  implies  uniformity  amid  complexity,  the  con- 
vergence of  all  details  upon  one  common  nucleus-idea 
—  in  other  words,  definiteness  of  purpose.  Unity  of  plot 
may  be  considered  from  two  points  of  view,  —  the  intel- 
lectual and  the  emotional.  That  is  to  say,  there  is  a  unity 
in  the  concrete  details  that  furnish  the  substance  of  the 
record,  and  there  is  also  a  unity  of  feeling,  which  perme- 
ates the  narrative  and  gives  it  individuality.  The  one  se- 
cures compactness  of  structure;  the  other,  distinctness  of 
emotional  effect.  The  whole  subject  of  unity  in  struc- 
ture is  summed  up  in  a  paragraph  of  Stevenson's 
A  Humble  Remonstrance,  often  quoted  in  this  connec- 
tion. The  author,  in  offering  helpful  advice  to  the  young 
writer,  says :  — 

The  best  that  we  can  say  to  him  is  this:  Let  him  choose  a 
motive,  whether  of  character  or  passion ;  carefully  construct  his 
plot  so  that  every  incident  is  an  illustration  of  the  motive,  and 
every  property  employed  shall  bear  to  it  a  near  relation  of  con- 
gruity  or  contrast;  avoid  a  sub-plot,  unless,  as  sometimes  in 
Shakespeare,  the  sub-plot  be  a  reversion  or  complement  of  the 
main  intrigue;  suffer  not  his  style  to  flag  below  the  level  of  the 
argument;  pitch  the  key  of  conversation,  not  with  any  thought 
of  how  men  talk  in  parlours,  but  with  a  single  eye  to  the  degree 
of  passion  he  may  be  called  on  to  express;  and  allow  neither 
himself  nor  any  character  in  the  course  of  the  dialogue  to  utter 
one  sentence  that  is  not  part  and  parcel  of  the  business  of  the 
story  or  the  discussion  of  the  problem  involved.  Let  him  not 
regret  if  this  shortens  his  book;  it  will  be  better  so;  for  to  add 
irrelevant  matter  is  not  to  lengthen  but  to  bury.  Let  him  not 
mind  if  he  miss  a  thousand  qualities,  so  that  he  keeps  unflag- 


184    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

gingly  in  pursuit  of  the  one  he  has  chosen.  Let  him  not  care 
particularly  if  he  miss  the  tone  of  conversation,  the  pungent 
material  detail  of  the  day's  manners,  the  reproduction  of  the 
atmosphere  and  the  environment.  These  elements  are  not 
essential :  a  novel  may  be  excellent  and  yet  have  none  of  them. 
.  .  .  And  as  the  root  of  the  whole  matter,  let  him  bear  in  mind 
that  his  novel  is  not  a  transcript  of  life,  to  be  judged  by  its 
exactitude;  but  a  simplification  of  some  side  or  point  of  life,  to 
stand  or  fall  by  its  significant  simplicity.  For  although,  in 
great  men,  working  upon  great  motives,  what  we  observe  and 
admire  is  often  their  complexity,  yet  underneath  appear- 
ances the  truth  remains  unchanged:  that  simplification  was 
their  method,  and  that  simplicity  is  their  excellence.1 

"To  add  irrelevant  matter  is  not  to  lengthen  but  to 
bury,"  and  even  the  most  complicated  form  of  narrative 
writing,  the  novel,  is  to  "stand  or  fall  by  its  significant 
simplicity":  in  these  words  lies  the  seed  of  the  whole 
matter  of  unity  in  plot.  It  is  only  when  the  reader  grasps 
the  bearing  of  every  thought,  the  direct  contribution 
of  the  various  items, 'that  he  realizes  the  plan  of  the 
work  in  its  entirety,  that  he  appreciates  its  "significant 
simplicity."  Every  student  is  familiar  with  this  truth. 
He  undertakes  to  follow,  it  may  be,  the  history  of  litera- 
ture in  England  during  the  nineteenth  century,  and  he 
reads ,  perhaps,  Saintsbury 's  History  of  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury Literature.  The  detailed  array  of  names,  titles,  dates, 
and  contributory  influences  Confuses  him;  no  common 
bond  of  relation  seems  apparent;  he  cannot  coordinate 
or  subordinate  them  in  definite  order;  complexity  and 
confusion  seem  everywhere  present.  Yet  familiarity 
with  the  subject,  aided,  it  may  be,  by  some  brief  but  sys- 
tematic compendium,  soon  brings  order  amid  seeming 

1  Stevenson's  Memories  and  Portraits.  By  permission  of  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons. 


THE   ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION          185 

chaos  and  the  well-ordered  unity  of  a  literary  period  be- 
comes evident.  So  with  extended  and  complicated  fic- 
tion. When  one  has  mastered  the  details  that  consti- 
tute, let  us  say,  one  of  the  early  Victorian  novels, 
he  realizes  a  unity  of  purpose  as  well  as  a  unity  of 
action  that  gives  them  added  interest  and  makes  them 
simple  enough.  Just  so  long,  however,  as  much  of  the 
subject-matter  seems  irrelevant,  so  long  will  unity  be 
lacking  and  interest  will  flag.  If  the  narrative  writer 
would  give  to  his  plot  the  definiteness  of  direction  that 
we  call  unity,  he  must  rid  it  of  all  details  that  do  not  con- 
tribute distinctly  to  the  actual  purpose  of  the  work;  or, 
from  another  point  of  view,  he  must  make  clear  the  rele- 
vancy of  all  that  he  includes. 

From  this  it  is  evident  that  the  two  fundamental  pro- 
cesses underlying  unity  of  plot  construction  are  selection 
and  elimination.  Whether  it  be  a  biography  of  so  com- 
monplace a  man  as  John  Bunyan  or  a  romance  of  wild 
adventure  on  the  Spanish  Main,  the  writer  must  choose 
those  details  that  with  most  concreteness  and  emotional 
effectiveness  set  forth  his  central  theme;  and  he  must,  on 
the  other  hand,  avoid  those  details  that  by  triviality  or 
incongruity  would  tend  to  obscure  that  theme.  Due  at- 
tention to  the  concrete  events  that  enter  into  plot  is 
relatively  an  important  consideration,  because  concrete- 
ness  of  detail  concerns  not  only  unity  but  clearness  and 
effectiveness  as  well. 

Examples  of  effectiveness  in  selection  as  well  as  in 
judicious  omission  abound  in  the  simple  narratives  of  the 
Bible.  The  story  of  Naaman  the  leper,  as  chronicled  in 
2  Kings,  v,  is  a  case  in  point.  The  plot  of  this  brief 
narrative  centers  about  a  twofold  episode,  which  may 
be  summed  up  in  a  single  sentence:  Elisha,  the  Man  of 
God,  heals  Naaman  of  his  leprosy ;  and  smites  his  own 


186    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

servant,  Gehazi,  with  the  Syrian  captain's  disease.  The 
various  events  that  the  author  selects  for  the  elabora- 
tion of  this  story  are  not  numerous;  the  primary  epi- 
sodes are  but  six  in  number:  — 

1.  The  circumstances  that  led  Naaman  to  seek  Elisha's  aid; 

2.  Naaman's  arrival  at  Elisha's  house  and  his  reception; 

3.  The  manner  of  Naaman's  healing; 

4.  His  gratitude  and  departure; 

5.  Gehazi's  pursuit  of  Naaman; 

6.  Gehazi's  return  and  punishment. 

Not  one  of  these  episodes  is  in  any  way  digressive; 
each  contributes  directly  toward  building  up  the  main 
event  of  the  story.  The  course  of  the  main  plot  is  con- 
crete, direct,  unified;  and  the  same  may  be  said  of  the 
constituent  episodes  of  the  second  order;  for  example, 
of  the  initial  episode  and  its  subdivisions :  — 

l.The  circumstances  that  led  Naaman  to  seek  Elisha's  aid: 

a.  Naaman's  position  at  court,  and  his  affliction; 

b.  The  little  maid's  report  of  Elisha's  power; 

c.  The  Syrian  king's  message  to  the  king  of  Israel; 

d.  The  Israeli tish  king's  despair; 

e.  Elisha's  confidence  in  his  own  power,  and  the  reply 
to  Naaman's  master. 

Here  again  the  successive  episodes  combine  into  one  defi- 
nite unit  and  unerringly  lead  to  the  next  episode,  Naa- 
man's arrival  and  reception  by  the  prophet.  The  story 
moves  consistently  forward,  without  allowing  the  reader's 
attention  to  deviate  from  the  direct  line  of  action,  and 
with  the  consequent  unity  come  clearness  of  expression 
and  dramatic  effectiveness. 

Yet  while  all  these  narrative  details  bear  directly  upon 
the  story,  it  is  to  be  noted  that  they  are  not  exhaustive. 
Many  others  might  have  been  included.  The  thought- 


THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION          187 

ful  reader  may  well  feel  some  slight  curiosity  as  to  pos- 
sible details  behind  the  bare  statement  that  Naaman  was 
"a  great  man  with  his  master  because  by  him  the  Lord 
had  given  deliverance  unto  Syria."  And  the  "little 
maid":  certainly  there  is  material  for  narrative  elabora- 
tion in  her  implied  story,  for  all  we  know  is  that  the  Syr- 
ian host  had  carried  her  away  from  her  native  land  and 
that  she  now  waited  on  Naaman's  wife.  What  were  the 
particulars  of  her  capture  and  separation  from  her  kin- 
dred? How  came  she  to  know  of  Elisha's  wonderful  heal- 
ing powers?  Had  she,  perhaps,  personal  knowledge  of 
the  prophet's  dealings  with  the  Shunammite  woman? 
Then,  too,  the  scene  by  the  banks  of  the  Jordan,  when 
the  Syrian  captain,  yielding  to  his  servants,  hum- 
bles himself  and  follows  the  command  of  the  prophet, 
and  before  their  very  eyes  the  miraculous  cure  is  effected : 
certainly  here  is  matter  for  dramatic  enlargement.  But 
were  these  and  other  possible  outlines  filled  in  with  de- 
tails of  descriptive  and  narrative  embellishment,  we  may 
doubt  whether  the  more  elaborate  result  would  possess 
the  effectiveness  of  the  simple  original.  It  would  cer- 
tainly lack  the  unity  that  comes  from  the  selection  of  a 
few  essential,  concrete,  direct  details. 

But,  as  has  already  been  explained  (p.  183),  the  con- 
sideration of  the  mere  concrete  particulars  does  not 
exhaust  the  subject  of  plot  unity.  Not  only  must  the 
conception  of  the  event  itself  be  definitely  and  clearly 
ordered,  but  often  the  emotional  note,  the  atmosphere, 
of  the  narrative  must  be  equally  clear.  Gibbon's  ten- 
dency to  belittle  all  forms  of  revealed  religion,  Hume's 
skepticism,  Hardy's  dreary  philosophy  of  life,  Macau- 
lay's  utilitarianism,  Milton's  majesty  —  these  are  but 
types  of  the  emotional  unity  that  characterizes  all  nar- 
rative writing  possessed  of  what  may  be  called  indi- 


188    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

viduality  and  rising  above  the  mere  chronicling  of  suc- 
cessive events  in  their  order.  Unity  of  this  sort,  entering 
into  the  very  essence  of  plot  organization,  lies  close  to 
what  is  called  individuality  of  style.  On  analysis  this 
I  abstract  emotional  unity  is  found  to  depend  largely 
I  upon  masterly  but  unconscious  selection  by  the  writer : 
he  chooses  just  those  details  that  are  consonant  with 
the  intangible  thing  known  as  personality;  he  rejects 
those  that  are  discordant;  and  complete  unity  —  alike 
concrete  and  abstract  —  characterizes  his  finished  com- 
position. 

(6)  Unity  in  Complication 

Under  unity  of  plot  structure  something  must  be  said 
of  complication,  although  the  various  methods  of  order- 
ing details  of  the  action  are  later  to  be  taken  up  more 
particularly  under  the  head  of  coherence.  It  will  be  re- 
called that  the  secondary  meaning  of  the  term  "plot" 
turns  on  the  association  of  the  word  with  the  allied  term 
"complot,"  and  connotes  the  idea  of  a  woven  pattern 
composed  of  many  threads.  Now  a  plot  thread,  or  strand, 
we  may  define  as  any  one  of  the  various  lines  of  action 
into  which  the  main  action  itself  may  be  resolved.  For 
illustration  we  may  revert  to  the  narrative  of  Naaman 
and  Elisha.  The  principal  threads  of  this  story  are,  in 
the  first  part,  those  of  Naaman  and  Elisha,  to  which, 
in  the  second  part,  is  added  that  of  Gehazi.  Subordinate 
threads  of  action  are  those  of  the  "little  maid,"  of  Naa- 
man's  royal  master,  and  of  Jehoram,  the  Israelitish 
king.  All  of  these  individual  strands  are  so  interwoven 
one  with  another  as  to  form  in  their  totality  a  narrative 
pattern  with  entire  harmony  of  effect.  The  more  highly 
complicated  story  embodied  in  the  Book  of  Esther  fur- 
nishes a  more  detailed  example  of  threefold  plot.  Here 


THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION          189 

we  have  the  individual  threads  of  Esther,  Mordecai, 
and  Haman,  united  into  a  considerably  complicated 
piece  of  narrative  writing.  The  structure  of  this  particu- 
lar instance  of  plot  complication  will  be  taken  up  in 
greater  detail  later. 

Narratives  consisting  of  a  single  plot  thread  are  not 
common.  Even  in  simple  plot,  consisting  of  a  single 
main  strand,  threads  of  minor  narrative  importance  are 
usually  interwoven.  The  type  would  be  represented  as 
follows:  the  heavy  ^ 

horizontal    line  re- 
presents the  single    — '- — *r — *- — rr — " — ^ — '- — ^ — 
central  narrative  \ 

strand,  and  the  finer 
lines  the   auxiliary 

strands  that  successively  enter  into  the  plot  and  in- 
corporate with  it.  Such  narratives  are  familiar  in 
biographic  sketches,  and  in  stories  of  the  Robinson 
Crusoe  variety,  —  the  "picaresque"  type,1  —  in  which 
the  career  of  the  hero,  usually  an  adventurer,  presents 
merely  a  central  theme  to  which  are  attached  the 
various  events  of  the  general  action. 

To  sustain  unity  amid  the  complexity  of  threads 
forming  a  plot  pattern  is  not  easy,  owing  to  the 
impossibility  of  representing  coincident  actions  simul- 
taneously. The  writer's  task  is  to  present  a  unified 
pattern,  yet  he  is  compelled  by  the  exigencies  of  com- 
position to  develop  but  one  thread  at  a  time.  The 
familiar  instance  from  Ivanhoe,  the  siege  of  Torquil- 
stone  Castle,  has  already  been  referred  to  (p.  56).  Scott's 
problem  is  to  secure  a  thoroughly  unified  plot  picture, 
ivhile  at  the  same  time  following  three  distinct  lines  of 
action.  The  respective  transitional  chapter  introduc- 
1  From  the  Spanish  picaro,  a  rogue. 


190    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

tions  show  how  the  author  endeavors  to  cope  with  his 
problem :  — 

Leaving  the  Saxon  chiefs  to  return  to  their  banquet  as  soon 
as  their  ungratified  curiosity  should  permit  them  to  attend  to 
the  calls  of  their  half-satiated  appetite,  we  have  to  look  in  upon 
the  yet  more  severe  imprisonment  of  Isaac  of  York. 

While  the  scenes  we  have  described  were  passing  in  other 
parts  of  the  castle,  the  Jewess  Rebecca  awaited  her  fate  in  a 
distant  and  sequestered  turret. 

What  reader  is  not  familiar  with  such  types  of  phraseol- 
ogy as  the  following,  all  indicating  the  writer's  conscious- 
ness that  he  must  unify  the  reader's  grasp  of  the  various 
threads  entering  into  the  plot  structure?  — 

While  the  events  recorded  in  the  preceding  chapter  were 
passing,  the  Marshal  Almagro  was  engaged  in  his  memorable 
expedition  to  Chili.  — Prescott:  Conquest  of  Peru. 

The  commander-in-chief,  meanwhile,  lay  at  Xuaxa,  where 
he  was  greatly  disturbed  by  the  rumors  which  reached  him  of 
the  state  of  the  country.  —  Id. 

It  is  now  time  to  relate  the  events  which,  since  the  battle  of 
La  Hogue,  had  taken  place  at  Saint  Germains.  —  Macaulay: 
History  oj  England. 

While  Wentworth  was  thus  working  out  his  system  of 
"Thorough"  on  one  side  of  St.  George's  Channel,  it  was  being 
carried  out  on  the  other  by  a  mind  inferior,  indeed,  to  his  own 
in  genius,  but  almost  equal  to  it  in  courage  and  tenacity.  — 
Green:  Short  History  of  the  English  People. 

The  difficulty  lies  in  the  fact  that,  if  the  individuality  of 
the  various  narrative  threads  is  greater  than  that  of  the 
main  action  in  its  totality,  unity  of  effect  is  lost. 


THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION          191 

Of  course  plot  structure  is  not  usually  dependent  upon 
mere  parallelism  among  the  narrative  threads.  Com- 
plication could  hardly  result  from  such  ordering.  The 
strands  constantly  converge  and  diverge,  now  meeting, 
now  parting.  The  points  at  which  two  or  more  narrative 
lines  meet  in  a  common  action  are  known  as  "knots," 
and  on  their  frequency  depends  the  degree  of  plot  com- 
plexity. Again  to  refer  to  the  story  of  Naaman  for  illus- 
tration :  we  have  a  convergence  of  threads  when  the  little 
maid  tells  her  mistress  of  the  wonderful  healing  power 
possessed  by  the  Israelitish  prophet.  The  threads  of  Elisha 
and  Naaman  meet  when,  as  a  result  of  the  girl's  words, 
the  Syrian  captain  stands  before  the  prophet's  door  and 
is  directed  to  bathe  in  Jordan.  There  is  a  knot  in  the  Naa- 
man and  Gehazi  threads  when  the  avaricious  servant 
runs  after  the  Syrian  and  asks  of  him  gifts  for  the  pro- 
phets of  Ephraim.  The  outline  of  the  story,  with  its  suc- 
cessive principal  strands  and  knot-complications,  may 
be  roughly  represented  thus :  — 


PIG.  3 

In  narratives  of  complicated  plot  structure  the  usual 
method  of  development  presents  the  successive  entan- 
gling of  several  knots  followed  by  the  "unknotting,"  or 
denouement,  as  it  is  technically  called,  —  in  which  the  vari- 
ous mysteries  and  situations  are  resolved.  In  the  type  of 
narrative  known  as  the  "  detective  story  "  the  procedure  is 
modified  to  this  extent :  the  story  begins  with  plot  compli- 
cation already  complete,  and  the  denouement  constitutes 
practically  the  entire  narrative.  We  have  here  indications 


192    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

of  what  are  really  two  radically  different  processes  of  con- 
struction. One  may  be  called  inductive,  and  the  other 
deductive.  By  the  inductive  process  the  writer  weaves 
his  plot  pattern,  thread  by  thread  and  knot  by  knot,  as 
he  proceeds,  ultimately  producing  the  finished  work. 
This  is  the  method  of  the  historian,  the  biographer,  the 
chronicler.  By  the  deductive  process  the  writer  places  be- 
fore the  reader  a  completed  pattern  at  the  very  outset, 
and  then  by  a  sort  of  analytic  process  shows  how  it  was 
put  together.  This  device  is  effective  in  that  it  arrests 
the  attention  to  begin  with,  and  then  by  successive  com- 
plications endeavors  to  hold  it  through  the  denouement 
process.  Thackeray's  Henry  Esmond  presents  an  inter- 
esting example  of  the  two  methods  in  combination.  The 
story  begins  at  Castlewood  with  a  scene  in  which  plot 
threads  are  already  considerably  complicated,  and  the 
reader's  curiosity  is  speedily  piqued  as  to  young  Esmond's 
relations  to  his  surroundings.  From  this  opening  the 
plot  advances  for  an  entire  chapter,  then  suddenly  re- 
verts several  years  and  proceeds  to  build  up  the  various 
complications  that  made  possible  the  opening  scene. 
When  this  has  been  accomplished,  —  and  it  takes  some 
five  or  six  chapters,  —  the  narrative  progresses  along  its 
regular  course  to  the  close.  The  method  is  attended  by 
danger  to  plot  unity  unless  the  convergence  of  plot 
threads  and  the  successive  knot  complications  seem 
inevitable  and  become  parts  of  a  single  well-defined 
pattern.  The  difficulty  that  has  confronted  many  read- 
ers of  Esmond  is  ultimately  one  of  failure  to  grasp  the 
unity  of  the  plot  scheme.  If  once  the  mutual  relations 
of  the  various  strands  become  evident,  the  course  of  the 
narrative  proceeds  smoothly  enough,  and  interest  does 
not  flag.  In  fact,  the  secret  of  unity  in  structure  lies  in  the 
ability  of  the  writer  so  to  organize  the  constituent  parts 


THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION          193 

of  "the  complex  plan  that  they  shall  seem  not  complex  at 
all  but  essentially  one. 

(c)  Point  of  View  in  Plot  Structure 

In  the  consideration  of  unity  as  an  element  in  plot 
structure  point  of  view  plays  no  small  part.  The 
attitude  of  the  writer  has  already  been  discussed  in  its 
relation  to  characterization;  it  is  no  less  important  as 
an  element  in  plot  ordering.  Character  portrayal,  we 
have  seen,  gains  in  consistency  and  completeness  when 
its  exposition  is  presented  from  a  single  definite  angle,  or, 
it  may  be,  from  a  series  of  definite  angles.  So  with  the  de- 
tails that  constitute  action:  the  angle  from  which  they 
are  observed  will  have  important  bearing  upon  the  to- 
tality of  the  final  effect.  The  movements  of  the  players 
in  a  football  game  produce  wholly  different  impressions 
upon  the  spectator  who  knows  little  of  the  game  and 
upon  the  coach  who  has  trained  one  of  the  teams.  To  the 
one,  the  rapid  movements  that  follow  the  kicking  or  the 
snapping  of  the  ball  are  utter  confusion:  a  mere  welter  of 
flying  legs,  violent  concussions,  and  prostrate  forms.  To 
the  other,  this  same  confusion  resolves  itself  into  a 
thoroughly  systematized  tactical  manoeuvre  :  each 
player  is  sustaining  his  part  in  a  preconcerted  piece 
of  strategy;  instead  of  chaos  there  is  order;  unity  and 
system  characterize  every  movement.  So  it  is  with  the 
organization  of  plot  in  narrative  writing.  The  attitude 
of  the  writer  to  his  facts  has  a  far-reaching  effect  upon 
the  ultimate  unity  of  his  plan. 

More  even  than  that:  as  in  setting  and  in  characteri- 
zation, so  in  plot,  variety  in  point  of  view — provided 
that  it  still  be  definite  —  will  contribute  largely  tol^tnity 
of  effect.  One  is  seldom  content  with  viewing  a  cathe- 


194    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

dral  from  the  west  front  only;  he  must  consider  it  at  close 
range,  now  from  one  angle,  now  from  another.  He  stud- 
ies it  perhaps  from  some  more  distant  vantage-point 
as  well,  and  from  the  various  points  of  view  in  common 
he  forms  his  complete  conception  of  the  great  building, — • 
nave,  transepts,  towers,  all  unite  in  one  satisfying  whole. 
In  the  same  way,  the  historian  and  the  novelist  approach 
their  narrative  from  changing  —  but  ever  definite  —  an- 
gles. A  part  of  the  adventures  attending  the  rescue  of 
the  good  ship  Hispaniola  will  be  given  by  Jim  Hawkins, 
and  still  others  by  Doctor  Livesey.  We  learn  some 
of  the  details  of  the  siege  of  the  castle  by  looking 
through  Rebecca's  eyes  and  from  the  tower,  but  others 
by  moving  in  person  among  the  besiegers  outside  the 
walls.  Yet  the  complete  account  will  be  thoroughly 
unified. 

But  unity  is  not  the  only  characteristic  served  by  main- 
taining a  definite  point  of  view  —  especially  by  the  shift- 
ing point  of  view  just  set  forth.  When  we  order  the  de- 
tails of  action  from  more  than  one  angle  of  observation, 
we  secure  a  conception  more  varied  and  hence  more  in- 
teresting. The  plot,  thus,  with  increased  unity,  gains  in 
force,  or  effectiveness,  as  is  evident  in  the  instances  cited 
above,  —  the  South  Sea  adventure  and  the  affair  at  Tor- 
quilstone. 

In  expounding  point  of  view  as  an  element  in  charac- 
terization, it  seemed  best  to  approach  the  subject  from 
(a)  the  angle  of  some  personage  in  the  narrative,  (6)  the 
focus  of  several  angles,  (c)  the  wholly  external  angle.  In 
studying  point  of  view  in  plot  structure  the  student  will 
find  it  sufficient  to  note  simply  temporal  and  spatial 
angles  of  approach.  In  relation  to  time,  the  narrator 
may  place  himself  on  some  definite  temporal  vantage- 
ground  and  weave  his  plot  threads  and  complications  as 


THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION          195 

matters  wholly  of  the  past.  In  such  cases  he  usually 
adopts  the  historian's  impersonality  toward  the  events 
chronicled.  Of  course  he  may  modify  this,  as  in  the 
autobiographic  method,  the  events  still  being  treated  as 
belonging  to  the  past,  the  writer  still  participating  in 
them  to  greater  or  less  degree.  These  two  attitudes  are 
illustrated  respectively  in  Nicholas  Nickleby  and  David 
Copperfield :  in  the  one  the  writer's  position  is  objective; 
in  the  other,  subjective.  In  cases  of  the  latter  sort  we 
have  increased  vividness,  and  the  reader  feels  as  if  he 
were  in  the  very  centre  of  the  action.  The  effect  is  often 
highly  dramatic;  the  sense  of  definite  time  is  forgotten; 
the  past  merges  insensibly  into  the  present. 

The  spatial  point  of  view  is  closely  allied  to  the  matter 
of  setting,  but  the  student  of  plot  structure  must  not 
neglect  it.  The  narrator  views  his  arena  as  a  spectator 
gifted  with  power  to  see  every  detail  visible  or  invisible, 
or  he  is  himself  an  actor  —  perhaps  the  protagonist  him- 
self —  with  the  limited  vision  of  actual  life.  Owing  to 
the  close  relations  that  in  fiction  exist  between  action 
and  character,  the  angle  of  omniscience  is  more  likely 
to  prevail  in  this  type  of  narration.  In  the  chronicling 
of  historical  events  the  author's  attitude  is  a  modifica- 
tion of  the  omniscient  to  the  extent  that  it  is  the  atti- 
tude of  an  authority  whose  pronouncements  as  to  mo- 
tives, causes,  and  results  we  may  accept  or  reject  at  our 
pleasure.  We  may  question,  for  instance,  the  narrator 
who  tells  us  that  the  history  of  the  English  Church  has 
been  conditioned  largely  by  certain  Tudor  characteris- 
tics in  Henry  VIII ;  but  in  Esther  we  do  not  question 
the  sufficiency  of  the  statement  that  "Haman  thought 
in  his  heart  ( To  whom  would  the  king  delight  to  do 
honour  more  than  to  myself?'"  In  this  case,  as  well 
as  in  the  case  of  the  historian,  we  have  the  objective 


196    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

point  of  view  of  one  who  stands  apart  and  knows;  but 
on  the  one  hand  we  are  in  the  realm  of  the  intellectual; 
in  the  other,  of  the  emotional. 

An  interesting  study  in  point  of  view  as  an  element  in 
plot  structure  is  presented  by  Balzac's  story  La  Grande 
Breteche.  The  narrative  is,  in  the  broad,  an  example  of  the 
first-person  type  of  approach  already  noted  on  page  158, 
but  this  passes  through  many  successive  phases.  At  first 
it  is  largely  a  matter  of  setting.  La  Grande  Breteche  is 
described  as  visible  to  the  beholder  —  as  yet  quite  im- 
personal —  from  the  top  of  the  neighboring  mountain, 
from  which  he  can  look  down  upon  the  enclosure  and  ob- 
serve the  estate  at  large.  Then  the  point  of  view  changes 
to  a  closer  inspection  on  the  street  side,  through  one  of  the 
numerous  holes  made  in  the  old  gate  by  the  children  of 
the  neighborhood.  Almost  immediately,  however,  vague- 
ness and  impersonality  are  cast  aside,  and,  in  his  own 
person,  Monsieur  Horace,  the  narrator,  takes  the  stage, 
and  by  night,  "  defying  scratches,  makes  his  way  into  the 
ownerless  garden"  and  contemplates  it  at  leisure,  stray- 
ing about  the  grounds  and  indulging  in  orgies  of  imagi- 
nary adventure.  But  he  is  soon  visited  at  the  inn  by  the 
notary,  Monsieur  Regnault,  who  forbids  further  trespass 
on  the  deserted  premises.  At  this  juncture,  although  the 
story  is  still  related  in  the  words  of  the  original  narrator, 
the  point  of  view  becomes  that  of  the  notary,  who  garru- 
lously recounts  his  experiences  in  the  chateau  at  the 
death-bed  of  the  late  owner,  the  Countess  de  Merret. 
With  this  change,  the  attitude  of  approach  shifts  over 
from  one  of  setting,  and  interest  centres  in  action.  But 
Regnault's  horizon,  while  narrower  in  extent  than  what 
has  preceded,  is  but  general,  after  all,  and  the  narrator 
speedily  seeks  to  supplement  the  notary's  story  by  that 
of  some  one  to  whom  more  details  are  known.  Such  in- 


THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION          197 

formation  he  readily  finds  in  his  landlady,  Mother  Lepas, 
a  peasant  woman,  who,  from  her  own  experiences,  adds 
materially  to  the  revelations  of  the  notary  regarding  the 
mystery  of  the  chateau.  Thus,  with  her  narrative,  the 
point  of  view  again  changes,  and  again  becomes  more 
concentrated  in  scope.  Finally,  convinced  that  he  can 
yet  penetrate  the  secret  of  the  whole  mystery  of  La 
Grande  Breteche  by  means  of  Rosalie,  the  servant  at 
the  inn  and  formerly  in  the  employ  of  the  Countess, 
Monsieur  Horace  gains  the  girl's  confidence,  and  she  ul- 
timately tells  him  of  the  gruesome  scene  in  which  she  per- 
sonally was  an  actor.  Thus  the  point  of  view  changes  for 
the  sixth  time,  and  is  now  concentrated  on  the  very  core 
of  the  story,  the  discovery  by  Monsieur  de  Merret  of  his 
wife's  lover  and  the  consequent  adventure. 

A  further  detail  of  structure  characterizes  Rosalie's 
story.  While  the  account  of  the  final  details  is  hers,  yet 
Monsieur  Horace  maintains  the  autobiographical  atti- 
tude, giving  her  story  in  his  own  words  and  assuming  the 
role  of  omniscience.  For  example,  speaking  of  Monsieur 
de  Merret,  he  says,  "During  dinner  he  [Monsieur]  re- 
marked that  Madame  de  Merret  was  very  coquettishly 
dressed;  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  walked  home  from  the 
club,  that  his  wife  was  no  longer  ill,  that  her  convales- 
cence had  improved  her."  Later  on,  "At  the  instant  that 
he  turned  the  knob  of  his  wife's  door,  he  heard  the  closet 
that  I  have  mentioned  close,"  etc.  Again,  when  his  wife 
replies  that  there  is  no  one  in  the  closet,  "That  'no'  tore 
Monsieur  de  Merret' s  heart,  for  he  did  not  believe  it,"  etc. 
And  so  on  throughout  the  scene:  we  have  details  that 
Rosalie  could  not  possibly  have  supplied,  and  that  we  can 
explain  only  on  the  omniscient  basis,  unless,  perhaps,  we 
assume  that  Monsieur  Horace,  while  narrating  Rosalie's 
experiences  in  propria  persona,  enlarged  upon  her  ac- 


198    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

count  by  supplying  what  seemed  natural  inferences  from 
the  data  given  by  the  girl. 

The  whole  matter  of  plot  unity,  including  point  of 
view,  complication,  and  all  kindred  questions,  resolves 
itself,  in  the  end,  to  a  single  process,  in  which  selection 
and  elimination  are  the  main  factors:  namely,  simplifi- 
cation. Simplification  demands  of  narrative  that  it  pre- 
sent but  a  section  of  life,  not  life  in  its  entirety.  No 
narrative,  whether  it  concern  itself  with  the  life  of  an  in- 
dividual, as  in  Carlyle's  John  Sterling,  or  with  the  history 
of  a  nation,  as  in  Prescott's  Conquest  of  Mexico,  can  do 
more  than  approximate  completeness  in  a  very  re- 
stricted degree. 

Writers  of  imaginative  narrative,  particularly  of  the 
short-story,  are  forced  to  realize  that  the  process  of  sim- 
plification is  fundamental.  Sometimes  their  method  is 
even  suggestive  of  the  old  unities  of  place  and  time, 
which  limited  the  dramatist  to  the  events  of  a  single  day 
and  to  the  walls  of  a  single  city.  Curious  instances  may 
occasionally  be  found  in  which  the  writer  attempts  to 
chronicle  events  as  occurring  approximately  within  the 
very  time  limitations  required  for  reading  the  narrative 
itself,  —  but  with  dubious  success.  An  instance  of  this 
oddity  may  be  found  in  a  story  entitled  Forty  Seconds, 
by  George  R.  Chester.1  This  is  a  breezy  account  of  how  a 
coasting  party  barely  escape  serious  accident  in  the 
course  of  a  winter's  evening,  the  entire  action  falling  be- 
tween the  time  when  they  leave  the  top  of  the  hill  and 
suddenly  arrive  at  the  bottom  after  narrowly  avoiding  a 
steep  declivity  at  the  side.  During  the  few  seconds  in- 
volved, characters  are  sharply  revealed  and  vital  rela- 
tions affected.  Such  radical  simplification  as  this  is 

1  Munsey's:  December,  1907. 


THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION          199 

attended  by  intensity  and  nervous  force,  it  is  true,  but, 
after  all,  the  method  is  at  best  a  tour  de  force,  and  an  ex- 
treme attempt  to  confine  the  narrative  within  artificial 
limits.  Simplification  of  this  extreme  variety,  or  even  of 
the  sort  that  is  characteristic  of  the  short-story,  is,  of 
course,  restricted  largely  to  narrative  of  the  non-histo- 
rical order,  for  the  restricted  field  of  action  is  in  great  , 
degree  but  a  device  to  intensify  the  emotional  appeal. 
At  the  same  time  historical  narrative  is  not  free  from 
the  restrictions  of  simplification;  it  is  merely  a  matter 
of  degree. 

It  follows  that  the  problem  of  the  episode  is  of  no  little 
importance  to  the  narrative  writer  who  would  secure 
unity  of  plot  structure.  His  single  query  must  be :  Will 
the  inclusion  or  the  exclusion  of  an  episode  contribute 
to  the  ultimate  purpose  of  the  composition,  whether  it 
be  to  serve  an  intellectual  or  an  emotional  end?  In  no 
case  must  the  elaboration  of  the  parts  detract  from  the 
completeness  of  the  whole. 

Coherence 

Although  generally  synonymous,  as  indicating  the 
consistent  ordering  of  details,  in  the  strictest  sense  se- 
quence and  coherence  are  not  interchangeable  terms  as 
used  in  connection  with  narration.  Sequence  lays  stress 
upon  the  mere  succession  of  occurrences  as  they  follow 
one  another  in  chronological  order.  But  coherence,  with 
its  implication  of  "  sticking  together,"  goes  a  step  farther 
and  connotes  the  additional  idea  of  a  logical  relation 
between  the  narrative  elements,  a  relation  that  in  the 
matter  of  climax  —  to  be  taken  up  later  —  plays  no 
inconsiderable  part. 

A  distinctive  peculiarity  of  narrative  plot  is  the  fact 
that  it  must  progress  definitely  toward  a  goal.  Note  again 


200    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

the  fundamental  definition:  not  merely  the  ordering 
of  "events,"  but  "of  events  that  in  their  entirety  con- 
stitute a  transaction."  That  is,  the  mere  setting  down  of 
details  is  not  sufficient.  Narrative,  as  Professor  Baldwin 
has  stated  it  in  his  Manual  of  Rhetoric,  must  not  only 
move,  it  must  move  on.  To  take  again  as  illustration  the 
first  part  of  the  simple  Bible  chronicle  of  Naaman :  the 
goal,  the  objective  of  all  the  details,  is  the  healing  of 
the  leprous  captain  by  the  prophet.  The  first  step  of  the 
episode  is  the  leading  away  of  the  Israelitish  maid  into 
captivity.  Through  her,  some  time  later,  was  communi- 
cated the  fact  (2)  that  in  Samaria  dwelt  a  mighty  man 
of  God  who  could,  were  he  approached,  heal  her  master 
of  his  leprosy.  This  chance  remark  was  then  (3)  com- 
municated by  another  servant  to  Naaman  himself  or  to 
the  Syrian  king,  who  at  once  (4)  despatched  a  letter  to 
the  king  of  Israel  by  the  hand  of  his  captain.  Hereupon 
and  in  consequence,  (5)  the  king  of  Israel  was  filled  with 
despair,  suspecting  in  the  message  merely  the  excuse 
for  a  quarrel  and  the  spoliation  of  his  kingdom.  Hear- 
ing of  Jehoram's  despair,  (6)  Elisha  sent  for  the  Syr- 
ian to  come  to  him,  and  in  answer  to  the  summons 
(7)  Naaman  speedily  appeared  at  the  prophet's  door. 
Then  follow  in  rapid  succession,  chronological  and  causal 
as  well,  (8)  Elisha's  message  to  Naaman  as  to  bath- 
ing in  the  Jordan;  (9)  Naaman's  scornful  rejection  of 
it;  (10)  his  departure  in  a  rage;  (11)  the  appeal  of 
his  servants ;  (12)  Naaman's  final  surrender  to  their 
common-sense  protest;  and  (13)  the  culmination  of  the 
story,  the  miraculous  healing.  Here  is  the  destination, 
the  "arrival"  of  the  narrative,  to  which  it  has  steadily 
"moved  on."  Then  succeeds  the  episode  next  in  order, 
still  bound  by  a  logical  link  of  causation  as  well  as 
of  temporal  succession,  —  the  awakening  of  Gehazi's 


THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION          201 

cupidity  and  the  infliction  of  punishment  by  the  out- 
raged prophet. 

Climax 

"  Climax,"  from  its  derivation  (jcXtjua^,  a  ladder),  im- 
plies ascent  to  a  higher  plane,  progress  toward  an  intel- 
lectual or  an  emotional  goal.  Examples  of  intellectual 
climax  appear  in  expository  or  argumentative  writing: 
the  thesis  or  the  forensic  attains  its  climax  when  the 
writer  succeeds  in  enabling  the  reader  to  occupy  the 
same  plane  of  knowledge  with  himself.  Emotional  cli- 
max is  secured  at  the  moment  of  greatest  tension,  — 
just  as  a  mystery,  it  may  be,  is  about  to  be  cleared, 
or  at  the  moment  when  conflicting  forces  are  in  equilib- 
rium, or  at  the  turning-point  of  a  career.  Climax  con- 
notes upbuilding,  culmination.  All  details  contribute 
to  it;  it  stands  at  the  apex.  In  historical  writing  this 
culmination  has  to  do  mainly  with  the  completion  of  \he 
action,  with  the  totajity  of  effect;  in  dramatic  and  story 
narrative,  with  the  tension  attendant  upon  a  crisis. 
Take,  for  example,  a  record  of  Walpole's  administration 
from  1715  to  1742,  unified  by  what,  according  to  Ma- 
caulay,  was  the  controlling  motive  of  the  great  Prime 
Minister:  lust  of  power.  Such  a  record  would  differ 
from  argumentation  or  exposition  in  that  the  writer's 
purpose  is  not  to  establish  a  proposition  or  to  make 
clear  a  fact,  but  to  set  in  order  definite  historical  data, 
all  knit  together  by  the  alleged  motive.  Every  narrative 
detail  would  contribute  to  the  completeness  of  this 
chronicle,  and  the  culmination  would  come  only  with 
the  conclusion.  On  the  other  hand,  in  Flute  and  Violin 
the  narrative  is  directed  to  a  crisis  in  the  hero's  ca- 
reer and  to  its  ultimate  effects  upon  his  character. 
This  crisis  —  the  death  of  little  David  —  is  the  common 


202    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

centre  of  all  the  narrative  threads,  the  culmination  of 
the  story;  all  that  precedes  this  incident  leads  up  to  it, 
and  all  that  follows  branches  away  from  it. 

The  following  brief  undergraduate  theme  affords  a 
definite  example  of  what  is  meant  by  climax  as  defined: 

For  the  last  two  days  of  the  voyage  the  sea  had  remained 
calm.  Far  over  the  horizon  hung  the  smoke  of  an  eastbound 
liner,  —  the  Philadelphia,  I  heard  one  of  the  stewards  tell  a 
man.  Now  that  all  motion  had  practically  ceased,  the  deck 
once  again  became  popular,  and  strange  figures  that  hitherto 
had  remained  below  now  appeared  on  the  promenade,  laugh- 
ing and  joking  in  the  sea  breeze. 

A  ship  is  like  a  great  hotel,  yet  unlike  a  hotel  in  that  each 
passenger,  feeling  the  boat  to  be  a  little  world,  becomes  eager  to 
know  his  fellows.  One  has,  therefore,  little  difficulty  in  picking 
up  acquaintances  that  may  last  far  longer  than  those  gained  sim- 
ilarly on  land.  It  was  with  this  fact  in  mind  that  I  approached 
the0  chair  of  a  young  lady  whom  I  had  already  noticed  on 
several  occasions,  and  who  seemed  to  be  traveling  alone. 

She  looked  up  with  a  start;  then,  seeing  who  it  was,  she  smiled 
and  invited  me  to  sit  down.  As  I  have  said,  she  was  young,  — 
ridiculously  young,  it  seemed,  to  be  dressed  in  heavy  mourn- 
ing; yet  there  was  about  her  something  that  indicated  a  rather 
unusually  strong  personality.  She  conversed  with  ease  and 
assurance,  and  ultimately  told  me  considerable  of  herself. 

"My  husband,"  she  said,  "was  a  wine  merchant,  and  expert 

taster  for  the  importing  house  of .  We  were  married  in 

America,  and  went  to  England  last  April  on  our  wedding  trip. 
We  were  so  happy,  —  I  cannot  tell  you  how  happy  we  were, 
until—  "  here  she  stopped,  and,  as  I  looked  out  over  the 
water,  I  could  hear  her  catch  her  breath. 

Well,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  her  husband  had  died  only 
a  few  weeks  before,  and  now  she  was  bringing  back  his  remains. 
After  this,  we  had  several  little  talks,  and  I  came  to  know 
quite  a  bit  of  her  life. 

When  the  declarations  were  handed  about,  I  went  over  to 


THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION          203 

help  her  with  hers.  She  smiled  sadly  and  said,  "Why,  I  have 
nothing  to  declare.  I  am  bringing  nothing  in  but  — "  and  here 
she  stopped  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

As  I  went  away  down  the  deck,  I  asked  myself  why  this  girl 
always  recalled  the  fact  of  her  husband's  death  in  this  rather 
marked  manner.  There  was  something  unnatural  about  it, 
yet  I  could  not  specify  what.  All  the  people  who  had  met  her 
seemed  to  like  her.  Why  should  I,  and  without  any  reason, 
question  her  actions? 

All  was  hurry  and  bustle  on  the  dock  as  the  baggage  was 
lowered  down  the  side.  As  no  one  was  there  to  meet  the  girl, 
some  of  the  passengers  went  to  see  her  through  the  customs. 
The  Inspector  came  along,  holding  her  declaration  marked 
"Nothing." 

"Would  you  be  good  enough  to  let  me  have  the  key  to  the 
casket?"  he  asked. 

At  this  the  girl  took  a  step  backward,  and  began  to  cry. 

A  gentleman,  stepping  up,  demanded  what  the  man  meant 
by  such  an  outrageous  request.  But  the  Inspector  was  insist- 
ent, and  added  that  unless  the  key  were  forthcoming  he  would 
break  open  the  box. 

At  length  with  great  reluctance  she  handed  him  the  key. 

He  knelt  down,  turned  the  key  in  the  lock,  and  threw  back 
the  heavy  leaden  cover. 

The  casket  was  filled  to  the  top  with  ivory  billiard  balls  ! 

An  examination  of  narrative  structures  seems  to  indi- 
cate three  rather  clearly  differentiated  types  of  coherent 
method,  distinguished  from  one  another  by  their  respec- 
tive relations  to  the  climax  and  its  position  in  the  com- 
plete work.  These  may  be  classified  as  (1)  the  method 
of  chronicle;  (2)  the  method  of  drama;  and  (3)  the 
method  of  story. 

(a)  The  Method  of  Chronicle 

In  the  method  of  chronicle  the  climax  is  to  be  found 
in  the  completion  of  the  detailed  action  as  a  whole,  as 


204    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

illustrated  in  the  case  of  the  Walpole  sketch.  Any  suc- 
cinct biography  offers  illustration  of  this  method.  The 
various  episodes  follow  in  coherent  series  and  combine 
in  the  climactic  effect  of  a  complete  historic  event.  No 
single  crisis  in  the  hero's  life  stands  as  a  point  for  the 
complication  of  the  various  strands;  rather  the  complete 
pattern  itself  represents  the  culmination  of  the  narra- 
tive process.  For  example,  we  may  take  the  biography 
of  Alice  Freeman  Palmer.  It  may,  in  a  sense,  be  said 
that  her  election  to  the  presidency  of  Wellesley  marked 
the  climax  of  her  career,  but  this  does  not  constitute  the 
narrative  climax,  or  culmination.  It  was  indeed  an  im- 
portant event  in  her  life-story,  it  marked  the  climax  of 
her  educational  career,  but  with  the  attainment  of  this 
honor  there  did  not  come  the  attainment  of  that  greater 
end,  the  perfect  maturing  of  a  great  woman.  This  last 
was  the  goal  ever  in  the  mind  of  the  biographer,  and  this 
is  attained  only  with  the  close  of  the  life ;  only  at  the  end 
did  her  life  culminate.  Before  final  judgment  could  be 
pronounced,  the  narrative  had  to  spread  out  in  its  en- 
tirety and  include  the  useful  years  from  1887  to  1902, 
after  the  duties  of  the  presidency  had  been  laid  aside. 
It  is  in  connection  with  this  first  method  of  ordering 
plot  material  —  the  method  of  chronicle  —  that  we  may 
note  a  real  difference  between  the  words  succession  and 
series.  Succession  connotes  the  mere  sequence  of  chron- 
ological occurrence  without  necessary  implication  as  to 
any  chain  of  causation  or  other  logical  bond.  It  is  typi- 
fied in  those  lack-lustre  tabulations  annually  published 
on  December  31,  wherein  appear  ordered  lists  of  the 
events  of  the  preceding  twelve  months.  The  want  of 
coherence  in  such  statistical  narrative  outlines  becomes 
immediately  apparent  if  one  attempts  to  weave  them 
together  into  a  pattern :  the  necessary  bond  is  wanting. 


THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION          205 

Very  different  would  be  the  unified  record,  let  us  say,  of 
the  events  that  followed  one  another  from  the  declara- 
tion, of  war  between  the  United  States  and  Spain  in 
April,  1898,  to  the  ratification  of  the  treaty  of  peace  ten 
months  later.  In  this  instance  there  would  be  a  definite  f 
bond  of  causation  between  the  successive  occurrences;)^ 
each  would  bear  a  definite  relation  to  what  went  before ; 
each  would  truly  constitute  an  " event,"  in  that  itwould^y 
"issue  from"  its  predecessor.  The  succession  of  events 
would  now  become  a  series.  It  is  this  serial  relation  that  ^ 
enters  intimately  into  the  idea  of  narrative  climax  as  the 
culminating  point  of  plot.  The  serial  relation  will  vary 
in  intensity,  it  is  true,  from  those  chronicles  in  which 
the  bond  of  causation  is  tenuous  even  to  the  degree  of 
nebulousness,  —  as  in  narratives  of  the  Robinson  Crusoe 
order,  —  to  those  carefully  elaborated  histories  in  which 
each  item  bears  its  definite  part  in  the  general  scheme, 
like  Bancroft's  History  of  the  United  States  or  Momm- 
sen's  History  of  Rome.  Yet  it  will  be  there  and  will  give 
to  the  plot  pattern  such  coherent  substance  as  it  may 
possess. 

(b)  The  Method  of  Drama 

From  the  simple  marshaling  of  details  that  underlies 
the  chronicle-method  of  plot  structure  we  pass  on  to  the 
second  method,  that  of  the  drama.  This  is  much  more 
complicated  and  must  be  considered  somewhat  at 
length.  For  greater  clearness  of  exposition  we  shall,  in 
taking  up  the  various  characteristics  of  the  method, 
exemplify  each  as  it  arises,  by  reference  to  the  Old 
Testament  story  of  Esther.  This  narrative,  while  sim- 
ple, like  almost  all  Scripture  narratives,  yet  in  rather 
remarkable  degree  illustrates  the  peculiarities  of  the 
type  of  structure  under  discussion.1 

1  This  same  story  has  been  utilized  by  Professor  C.  S.  Baldwin  in 


206    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

The  first  thing  to  be  noted  in  the  organization  of  dra- 
matic plot  is  that  the  narrative  shall  represent  a  strug- 
gle between  two  conflicting  forces  and  the  ultimate  tri- 
umph of  one  over  the  other.  These  two  parties  to  the 
action  are  technically  known  as  play  and  counterplay, 
or  protagonist  and  antagonist.  The  dramatic  struggle 
may  be  between  a  weak  nature  and  a  strong;  between 
virtue  and  vice ;  between  man  and  his  environment,  man 
and  society,  man  and  fate.  The  idea  of  struggle  is  fun- 
damental, and,  moreover,  each  opposing  element,  the 
play  and  the  counterplay,  must  be  represented  by  some 
single  exponent:  it  is  Brutus  vs.  Csesar;  Macbeth  vs. 
Macduff;  Othello  vs.  lago;  Tito  vs.  Romola. 

In  the  case  of  Esther,  Mordecai  represents  the  play, 
and  Haman  the  counterplay.  The  other  characters  serve 
to  supplement  the  main  action  of  the  conflict  between 
these  two  principal  actors.  The  course  of  the  dramatic 
struggle  becomes  apparent  if  we  contrast  the  relative 
positions  of  the  two  conflicting  forces  at  the  beginning 
and  at  the  close  of  the  action.  At  the  outset,  we  have 
Mordecai,  the  son  of  Jair,  a  Jew  of  the  Captivity,  with- 
out status  and  without  influence,  even  passed  over  with- 
out reward  after  having  saved  the  life  of  the  King 
himself.  And  on  the  other  hand  stands  Haman,  the  son 
of  Hammedatha  the  Agagite,  promoted  by  the  King 
above  all  the  princes  and  reverenced  by  all  that  sat  in 
the  King's  gate,  save  by  Mordecai  the  Jew.  Then  comes 
the  conflict,  and,  at  the  end,  the  complete  reversal  of  the 
initial  status:  Haman  and  his  ten  sons  hanged  upon  the 
very  gallows  that  he  had  prepared  for  his  enemy;  and 
Mordecai  great  in  the  King's  house,  honored  throughout 


his  little  book  How  to  Write;  but  the  analysis  following  differs  from  hia 
study  in  several  respects. 


THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION          207 

the  royal  provinces.  Thus  we  have  the  triumph  of  the 
play  and  the  overthrow  of  the  counterplay. 

The  course  of  this  same  narrative  well  illustrates  also 
the  meaning  of  two  other  terms,  rise  and  fall,  used  to 
indicate  the  two  main  divisions  of  the  dramatic  action. 
The  ultimate  reversal  of  conditions  which  has  been 
pointed  out  as  characterizing  the  Esther  plot  is  not  a 
sudden  phenomenon,  but  a  gradual  process.  The  for- 
tunes of  Haman  ascend  by  degrees  to  constantly  higher 
planes;  the  counter-efforts  of  Mordecai  indicate  a  los- 
ing struggle.  A  moment,  however,  is 
finally  reached  when  the  success  of 
Haman  attains  its  culmination,  and, 
for  an  instant,  play  and  counterplay 
stand  in  equilibrium.  Then  the  de- 
cline begins.  From  that  point  success 
falls  away  from  Haman;  his  good  for-  ' 
tune  deserts  him;  he  yields  step  by  FlG*  4 

step  before  the  advance  of  Mordecai,  and  the  action 
falls  more  and  more  rapidly  to  the  close.  This  succes- 
sive rising  and  falling  action  is  conventionally  repre- 
sented by  the  appended  diagram,  figure  4. 

A  second  characteristic  typical  of  the  dramatic 
method  of  plot-ordering  is  found  in  the  logical  nature  of 
the  bond  that  unites  the  various  episodes.  It  is  not 
enough  that  mere  chance  shall  bring  about  the  triumph  of 
the  play  or  of  the  counterplay ;  each  episode  must  consti- 
tute an  event  in  the  sense  already  developed  on  page  205. 
In  the  Esther  plot,  for  example,  while  Jehovah's  name 
and  direct  interference  in  the  action  are  not  distinctly 
specified  as  the  motive  power,  yet  God's  care  for  the 
Promised  Seed  is  the  consistent  mainspring  of  the  nar- 
rative. The  story  itself  is  a  sort  of  national  drama,  ex- 
plaining the  institution  of  the  Feast  of  Purim,  arid  Mor- 


208    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

decai's  triumph  over  his  enemy  comes  in  no  way  through 
a  mere  fortuitous  combination  of  circumstances;  rather 
it  results  from  a  direct  chain  of  causation;  it  emanates 
from  an  intelligent  will;  it  marks  the  accomplishment 
of  a  definite  purpose. 

These  two  features,  then,  may  be  called  the  funda- 
mentals of  the  dramatic  structure :  (a)  the  rise  and  fall 
of  play  and  counterplay,  or  the  dramatic  conflict;  and 
(b)  the  serial  nature  of  the  episodes.  Subordinate  to 
them  are  further  essential  characteristics.  In  the 
course  of  the  rising  and  falling  action  there  are  cer- 
tain well-defined  "  moments,"  or  stages,  that  mark  the 
progress  of  the  action  along  its  course.  Of  these  the  first 
is  what  is  sometimes  termed  the  exposition,  or  the  an- 
ticipatory action.  This  is  the  preliminary  stage  found 
at  the  threshold  of  every  form  of  plot  movement.  The 
reader  must  know  his  surroundings,  he  must  meet  those 
whose  fortunes  he  is  to  follow.  The  author  must  famil- 
iarize him  with  all  necessary  details,  and  yet  give  him 
no  hint  of  what  is  to  come,  lest  the  rhetorical  force  of  the 
denouement  be  destroyed.  Setting  and,  it  may  be,  pre- 
liminary  characterization  will  play  important  roles. 
The  bleeding  sergeant  will  acquaint  the  audience  with 
the  news  from  the  front ;  Ross  will  announce  the  victory 
of  Duncan,  the  fate  of  Cawdor,  and  the  coming  honors 
of  Macbeth.  Flavius  and  Marullus,  the  tribunes',  will 
expound  conditions  prevalent  at  Rome,  —  the  ambition 
of  Caesar,  the  uneasiness  of  the  republicans,  the  degen- 
eration of  the  commons.  If  the  exposition  be  well  done, 
the  reader  will  be  prepared  to  follow  intelligently  the 
thread  of  the  rising  action  when  it  shall  definitely  begin 
its  upward  movement. 

In  Esther  the  exposition  consists  of  five  well-defined 
episodes  that  serve  this  purpose  of  introduction:  (1)  The 


THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION          209 

royal  feast  given  by  King  Ahasuerus  in  Shushan,  fol- 
lowed by  Queen  Vashti's  refusal  to  obey  the  King's  com- 
mand, and  her  banishment;   (2)  the  preparations  for  the 
appointment  of  her  successor,  including  the  introduc- 
tion of  Mordecai  and  Esther;   (3)  Esther's  year  of  pre- 
paration in  the  house  of  Hegai,  followed  by  her  increasing 
favor  with  the  King,  and  her  coronation;    (4)  the  con- 
spiracy of  Bigthan  and  Teresh,  and  Mordecai's  service 
in  saving  the  King's  life;    (5)  the  introduction  of  Ha- 
man,  already  high  in  the  royal  favor.  It  will  be  observed 
that  all  these  steps  are  no  more  than  introductory.  The 
various  plot  threads  are  merely  indicated;  they  as  yet 
show  no  complication.    In  fact,  the  two  main  strands 
of  what  we  recognize  later  as  the  play  and  the  counter- 
play  betray  no  sign  of  converg- 
ence.   The  plot  action   has  not  /\ 
begun,  but  the  reader,  after  this                        /     \ 
preliminary   exposition,  is   in   a                      / 
position    to  follow   understand-                    /  V 
ingly  the  complications  that  may                  /  \ 

arise  out  of  the  conditions  thus    /  \ 

placed  before  him.   In  its  rela- 
tion  to  the  complete  plot  to  be 

evolved,  the  situation  at  this  point  in  the  narrative  may 
be  represented  as  in  figure  5,  the  horizontal,  continu- 
ous line  indicating  the  exposition  preliminary  to  the  up- 
ward movement  of  the  rising  action. 

When  the  exposition  is  complete,  there  succeeds  an 
episode  that  brings  to  sudden  convergence  the  threads 
of  play  and  counterplay,  disturbs  the  expository  condi- 
tions, and  precipitates  the  dramatic  conflict.  This  epi- 
sode constitutes  what  is  known  as  the  moment  of  excit- 
ing force.  The  witches  inspire  in  the  heart  of  Macbeth 
the  ambition  to  seize  the  throne  of  Scotland.  Cassius 


210    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

turns  the  mind  of  Brutus  definitely  in  the  direction  of 
conflict  with  Caesar  and  Csesarism.  In  Esther  the  play  and 
counterplay  are  suddenly  thrown 
into  antagonistic  relations  by 
Mordecai 's  refusal  to  reverence 
Haman.  The  conflict  once  set 
into  action,  the  progress  of  the 
rising  movement  begins.  The 
status  may  be  represented  as  in 
figure  6,  the  star  indicating  the 
initial  action  under  discussion. 

From  the  moment  of  exciting  force  up  to  the  turning- 
point  of  the  narrative  extends  the  main  course  of  the 
rising  action,  sometimes  technically  known  as  the 
heightening.  The  hero  now  shows  a  steady  increase  in 
power,  a  constant  growth  toward  the  attainment  of  his 
goal.  The  collision  between  the  play  and  the  counter- 
play  becomes  increasingly  violent.  If  the  narrative  be 
principally  one  of  action,  the  threads  become  increasingly 
complicated ;  if  of  character,  the  personality  of  the 
hero  is  more  clearly  expounded,  and  is  brought  into  in- 
creasing conflict  with  external  forces.  This  phase  is  a 
period  of  vigorous  action,  rapid  movement,  and  definite 
progress  toward  the  climax.  All  this  is  well  exemplified 
in  the  course  of  the  Old  Testament  narrative  under  con- 
sideration. The  heightening  passes  through  five  stages, 
or  scenes,  with  their  respective  secondary  episodes: 
(1)  Haman,  filled  with  wrath  against  Mordecai,  plots 
vengeance  in  the  wholesale  slaughter  of  the  Jews,  who, 
through  his  influence  with  Ahasuerus,  are  delivered  over 
to  him;  the  edict  goes  forth;  the  Jews  fill  the  land  with 
lamentation;  Hainan's  star  is  in  the  ascendant.  (2) 
Mordecai  now  comes  forward  and  places  upon  Esther 
the  responsibility  of  saving  her  people;  unmindful  of  the 


THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION          211 

danger,  she  consents,  with  the  patriotic  exclamation, 
"If  I  perish,  I  perish!"  (3)  Then  follow  her  self-sought 
audience  with  the  King,  her  favorable  reception,  her 
invitation  to  the  King  and  Haman,  the  banquet  of  wine, 
and  her  petition.  (4)  From  this  scene  we  pass  to  Ha- 
inan's house  and  see  him  in  all  his  boastful  pride;  never 
have  his  fortunes  been  so  prosperous;  his  position  with 
the  King  is  assured,  and  with  the  Queen  as  well  he 
is  apparently  a  favorite;  he  confidently  orders  the  erec- 
tion of  a  gallows  for  the  execution  of  his  enemy.  (5) 
Then  ensues  a  brief  episode,  fraught  with  significance 
to  play  and  counterplay:  the  King  is  reminded  of  Mor- 
decai's  services  at  the  time  of  Bigthan  and  Teresh's  con- 
spiracy, and  discovers  that  the  faithful  Jew  has  never 
been  rewarded  for  his  loyalty.  Up  to  this  point  of  the 
narrative  the  hero  of  the  rising  action  has  steadily  ad- 
vanced in  fortune,  and  now  stands  at  the  apex  of  his  pros- 
perity, —  the  attainment  of  supreme  social  and  political 
favor.  Mordecai,  on  the  other  hand,  has  met  with  con- 
sistent adversity.  But  it  is  clear,  through  all,  that 
Hainan's  fortunes  contain  the  possibilities  of  downfall 
and  that  Mordecai 's  apparently  hopeless  case  contains 
equally  great  possibilities  of  bet- 
terment. In  other  words,  the 
rise  has  in  it  the  seeds  of  com- 
plete reversal  of  conditions. 
The  plot  up  to  this  point  would 
be  represented  as  in  figure  7. 

It  is  clear  that  the  point  now 

reached  is  critical:  a  complete 
change  in  the  course  of  fortune 

is  at  hand.  The  onward  progress  of  one  set  of  condi- 
tions is  on  the  verge  of  being  checked,  and  the  current 
is  about  to  set  in  the  new  direction.  At  this  place, 


212    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

which  marks  the  culmination  of  the  rising  action,  stands 
the  crisis  known  as  the  climax.  It  is  generally  a  moment 
not  only  of  reversal  but  of  great  tension  as  well.  In  the 
drama  it  usually  occurs  in  the  third  act,  —  at  any  rate, 
approximately  near  the  middle  of  the  play.  The  climac- 
tic scene  may  be  elaborate  and  picturesque  in  setting,  as 
in  the  banquet  scene  of  Macbeth  or  the  senate  scene  of 
Julius  Ccssar,  or  it  may  be  lacking  in  external  elabora- 
tion, as  in  Esther;  but  tense  and  critical  it  should  be,  in 
order  to  accomplish  the  fullness  of  its  effect.  A  distinc- 
tion at  this  point  is  sometimes  drawn  between  the  actual 
climax  and  what  is  known  as  the  tragic  moment;  that 
is,  between  the  instant  when  the  reversal  actually  be- 
gins and  the  instant  when  some  critical  incident  renders 
such  reversal  inevitable.  But,  although  this  distinction 
may  frequently  be  drawn  without  difficulty,  yet  usually 
the  two  merge  into  one. 

An  illustration  of  climax  is  found  at  the  moment  when, 
in  answer  to  the  King's  summons,  Haman  stands  before 
the  throne  and,  confident  of  its  application  to  himself, 
makes  answer  to  the  inquiry  as  to  what  shall  be  done  to 
the  man  whom  the  King  delights  to  honor.  "Then  the 
King  said  to  Haman  .  .  .  '  Do  even  so  to  Mordecai  the 
Jew,  that  sitteth  at  the  King's  gate :  let  nothing  fail  of  all 
that  thou  hast  spoken.' "  With 
these  words  and  with  Haman 's 
complete  discomfiture  the  cur- 
rent of  the  narrative  turns  and 
\  plunges  downward.  The  effect- 
\  iveness  of  the  scene  is  tremen- 
\  dous.  The  crushing  effect  of  the 
King's  command  is  intensified 
by  the  total  unexpectedness 
with  which  it  falls  on  Haman's  ears.  The  demolition 


THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION          213 

of  his  air  castles  and  the  bitterness  of  his  humiliation 
are  complete.  It  is  the  "psychologic  moment'*  of  the 
entire  plot.  The  diagram  shows  the  culmination  of 
the  action. 

After  this  culmination  of  the  plot  structure  there  re- 
mains but  the  downward  course  of  the  action  to  its  close, 
the  folly  containing  the  resolution  of  the  thread  compli- 
cations. The  powers  that  have  been  in  the  ascendant 
now  decline  before  the  counter-action,  which  gains,  in 
vigor  as  it  advances.  The  moment  of  greatest  intensity 
having  passed,  there  is  little  further  complication,  and, 
now  that  the  ultimate  issue  of  the  plot  is  apparent,  the 
problem  of  sustaining  interest  presents  peculiar  dif- 
ficulty. To  offset  this  difficulty  and  to  sustain  the  in- 
terest, various  devices  are  utilized,  —  among  them, 
striking  scenes  marked  by  elaborate  setting  and  great 
emotional  vigor.  Frequently  at  this  stage  the  writer  in- 
troduces what  is  known  as  the  moment  of  final  suspense,  . 
a  crisis  at  which,  for  a  brief  period,  the  downward  course 
of  the  action  seems  on  the  verge  of  being  arrested  and 
the  impending  crisis  averted.  Drama  itself  frequently 
offers  example  of  this  moment:  the  final  clause  in  the 
witches'  threefold  prophecy  seems  for  an  instant  to  offer 
a  ray  of  hope  to  Macbeth,  about  whom  disasters  are 
gathering  fast  and  thick;  Brutus  for  a  moment  hesitates 
at  the  thought  of  suicide,  reasoning  that  it  betrays 
cowardice  thus  to  "prevent  the  time  of  life"  for  fear  of 
ills  to  come.  But  the  check  is  never  quite  adequate: 
Macduff  proves  that  the  prophecy  has  no  application  in 
his  case;  Brutus  ultimately  rushes  upon  the  sword  held 
by  Strato.  In  prose  narrative  the  moment  of  final  sus- 
pense is  frequently  lacking,  but,  in  order  to  meet  the 
difficulty  of  sustaining  the  interest  after  the  point  of 
culmination  has  been  reached,  the  fall  is  made  very  brief 


214    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

in  duration,  so  that  the  climax,  instead  of  occupying  a 
medial  position,  is  advanced  well  on  toward  the  conclu- 
sion. 

The  falling  action  of  Esther  is  divided  as  follows: 
The  first  scene  presents  Hainan's  bitterness  and  pros- 
tration of  spirit,  following  his  humiliating  obedience 
to  the  King's  command  regarding  Mordecai.  The  in- 
evitableness  of  Haman's  undoing,  too,  is  emphasized 
by  the  prophetic  warning  of  Zeresh,  that  if  his  enemy  be 
of  the  Jewish  people  her  husband  will  in  vain  seek  to  pre- 
vail. Then  follows  the  great  scene  of  the  banquet  given 
by  the  Queen  to  the  King  and  to  Haman,  a  scene  capa- 
ble of  almost  unlimited  elaboration.  The  note  pervad- 
ing this  episode,  however,  is  diametrically  different 
from  that  of  similar  preceding  scenes  in  the  story  as  far 
as  it  affects  the  principal  personage  concerned.  Haman, 
to  be  sure,  is  the  honored  guest,  he  has  attained  the 
summit  of  his  ambition,  yet  all  his  honors  and  his 
success  are  little  better  than  ashes,  —  all  the  warmth 
and  the  glow  have  departed  from  them.  The  sense  of 
impending  disaster  is  omnipresent;  the  atmosphere  of 
falling  action  is  unmistakable.  The  banquet  scene  con- 
tains in  reality  three  constituent  narrative  episodes 
marking  this  climactic  approach  to  disaster:  Esther's 
indictment  of  Haman  as  the  persecutor  of  her  people, 
and  the  King's  anger;  Haman's  despairing  appeal  to  the 
Queen  for  mercy;  and  last,  the  edict  for  Haman's  execu- 
tion. The  second  of  these  episodes  is  noteworthy  as  sug- 
gesting, in  a  way,  the  moment  of  final  suspense.  If  Ha- 
man is  to  secure  any  consideration  at  all,  it  must  be 
through  the  favor  of  the  Queen,  whose  family  and  race 
he  has  cruelly  wronged.  Very  properly,  then,  does  he 
throw  himself  upon  Esther's  mercy.  But  she,  possessing 
many  of  the  characteristics  that  distinguished  Jael  and 


THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION          215 

Deborah,  stands  in  a  peculiarly  responsible  position: 
she  is  acting  for  her  people,  not  as  an  individual.  And,  to 
emphasize  the  inevitableness  of  Hainan's  fate,  the  King 
misinterprets  his  action,  and  the  edict  of  death  is  imme- 
diate. If,  then,  the  scene  between  Haman  and  the  Queen 
be  viewed  as  a  moment  of  final  suspense,  it  certainly  pos- 
sesses one  of  the  prime  essen- 
tials of  that  moment,  in  that 
immediately  after  this  promise 
of  a  possible  check,  the  down- 
ward plunge  of  the  action  is 
increasingly  steep  and  rapid. 
A  diagram  of  the  story  up  to 
the  point  of  Hainan's  death 
warrant  would  appear  as  in 
figure  9,  the  angle  in  the  fall  representing  the  moment 
of  suspense  just  preliminary  to  the  final  and  precipitate 
stage. 

There  remains  only  the  concluding  phase  of  the  dra- 
matic plot,  the  culmination,  or  completion,  of  the  fall, 
known  technically  as  the  catastrophe.  In  the  type  of 
plot  structure  under  discussion,  catastrophe  differs  radi- 
cally from  climax,  although  in  other  forms  the  two  may 
coalesce,  as  will  be  set  forth  later.  Catastrophe  has 
about  it  the  character  of  finality,  of  termination.  Con- 
sequently if  the  catastrophe  be  well  conceived  the  co- 
herence of  the  plot  structure  will  be  evident.  At  this 
point  all  the  lines  of  action  converge  in  that  they  indi- 
cate it  as  the  inevitable  issue.  It  calms  the  conflicting 
forces  that  have  been  disturbed  since  the  beginning  of 
the  dramatic  struggle. 

The  word  "catastrophe"  has  by  association  come  to 
connote  to  the  average  reader  the  idea  of  death  or  disas- 
ter. But  this  signification  is  not  essential.  It  implies  no 


216    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

reflection  on  the  charms  of  the  heroine  nor  a  pessimistic 
attitude  toward  marriage  to  say  that  the  winning  of  her 
hand  may  form  the  catastrophe  of  a  dramatic  plot. 
Death  is  catastrophic  when  it  is  the  logical  and  inevitable 
termination  of  the  plot  series.  Tito's  death  is  catas- 
trophic in  Romola,  but  only  as  attendant  upon  his  moral 
death  which  has  already  occurred.  His  tragic  end  below 
the  Bridge  of  Santa  Trinita,  with  Baldassarre's  fingers 
at  his  white  throat,  is  a  fitting  culmination  to  the  gen- 
eral moral  disintegration  that  has  steadily  progressed 
since  Tito  first  yielded  to  the  temptations  of  self-inter- 
est. And  so  it  is  with  the  death 
of  Haman.  In  view  of  the  set- 
ting of  the  story  in  the  Oriental 
court  of  Ahasuerus  and  amid 
Eastern  customs  of  prompt 
punishment  for  offenders 
against  the*  royal  power,  the 
F  1  death  of  Haman  is  the  inevit- 

able and  fitting  issue  of  the 

events  that  constitute  the  narrative.     The   complete 
story,  then,  would  be  indicated  in  figure  10. 

It  is  to  be  noted  that  the  dramatic  effectiveness  of  nar- 
ratives built  on  this  plan  is  increased  if  the  finality  of  the 
catastrophe  be  not  weakened  by  an  appended  exposi- 
tion setting  forth  the  ultimate  disposal  of  all  characters 
accessory  to  the  action.  Some  degree  of  emotional  ten- 
sion at  the  very  end  is  forceful,  on  the  rhetorical  princi- 
ple of  emphasis.  The  sense  of  absolute  coherence  is 
maintained  and  the  effect  of  a  strong  conclusion  is  not 
lost.  The  conventional  endings  of  the  type  familiar  to 
readers  of  The  Marble  Faun  or  of  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities 
do  not  always  leave  the  sense  of  dramatic  culmination. 
And  how  does  this  apply  to  the  Esther  narrative,  in 


THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION          217 

which  the  catastrophe  is  followed  by  a  conclusion  half  as 
long  as  all  that  has  preceded?  The  reader  must  not  for- 
get that  this  chronicle  is  primarily  an  expository  narra- 
tive, setting  forth  the  institution  of  a  great  national  fes- 
tival, the  Feast  of  Purim.  Within  this  larger  field  stands 
the  dramatic  unit,  the  narrative  of  Mordecai  and  Haman, 
and  this  latter  story  we  may  view  as  concluding  with  the 
catastrophe  already  indicated.  The  fitting  conclusion 
to  the  dramatic  plot  would  be  found  in  the  words: 
"Then  the  King  said,  'Hang  him  thereon.'  So  they 
hanged  Haman  on  the  gallows  that  he  had  prepared  for 
Mordecai.  Then  was  the  King's  wrath  pacified." 

The  anti-climactic  effects  of  supplementing  the  catas- 
trophic conclusion  by  the  addition  of  matter  extraneous 
to  the  plot  is  admirably  illustrated  in  this  very  case  of 
Esther.  Let  one  overlook  the  distinction  between  the 
Haman-Mordecai  narrative  and  the  broader  chronicle 
within  which  it  is  embraced,  let  him  read  it  in  its  en- 
tirety as  a  single  narrative,  and  the  falling  off  of  emo- 
tional interest  after  the  words  "Then  was  the  King's 
wrath  pacified"  is  unmistakable.  The  reader  is  con- 
scious of  a  distinct  mental  effort  as  he  continues  with  the 
extended  details  regarding  the  'post  and  rommage' 
through  the  King's  domains,  the  stand  made  by  the 
Jews  before  their  enemies,  and  the  establishment  of  the 
day  of  national  thanksgiving.  So  in  ge'neral:  the  catas- 
trophe should  stand  very  near  the  actual  conclusion, 
if  not  at  that  very  point. 

This  ordering  of  plot  structure  after  the  dramatic  plan 
is  best  suited  to  extended  narratives  that  proceed  after 
a  leisurely  fashion  on  toward  their  conclusion.  The 
short-story,  limited  by  its  very  nature  to  rapidity  of  ac- 
tion and  to  a  restricted  selection  of  details,  seldom  pre- 
sents a  suitable  field  for  the  systematic  succession  of  the 


218    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

dramatic  method  from  preliminary  exposition  through 
climax  to  catastrophe.  The  novel  of  character,  on  the 
other  hand,  presents  the  very  best  material,  for  here,  the 
writer  has  all  the  space  necessary  to  the  elaboration  of 
personality  through  circumstance  and  action.  Probably 
Silas  Marner  offers  the  example  most  familiar  to  stu- 
dents. In  this  novel  the  climax,  the  turning-point  in 
Marner's  career,  with  the  attendant  change  of  external 
relations  consequent  thereon,  occupies  almost  the  middle 
of  the  narrative,  chapter  xn,  the  story  from  that  point 
falling  off  to  the  catastrophe. 

A  more  recent  and  a  very  perfect  example  of  the  dra- 
matic method  is  to  be  found  in  Maurice  Hewlett's  Rich- 
ard Yea-and-Nay.  This  is  a  story  of  strenuous  action 
and  of  evolution  in  personality  as  well.  The  novel  is 
constructed  so  strictly  along  the  lines  of  rising  and  fall- 
ing action,  the  various  "moments"  being  clearly  indi- 
cated, that  it  is  possible  to  divide  it  into  acts  and  scenes 
as  in  the  actual  drama.  Below  follows  the  construc- 
tion of  the  first  "act"  and  the  general  scheme  of  what 
is  included  within  it:  — 

RICHARD    YEA-AND-NAY 

Act  I.  EXPOSITION  AND  EXCITING  FORCE  (chaps,  i-v). 
Scene  I.  The  Dark  Tower. 

a.  On  the  plain. 

b.  Within  the  castle. 

c.  In  the  fields. 

d.  In  the  chapel. 

(a)  The  Mass. 

(b)  Richard's  departure. 

(c)  Jehane  and  Milo. 
Scene  II.  At  Saint  Pol-la-Marche. 

a.  Jehane,  Eudo,  and  Eustace. 

b.  Gilles'  arrival. 
Scene  III.  At  Louviers. 

a.  Richard  and  his  company  at  Evreux. 

b.  The  Court  of  Henry. 


THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION          219 

(a)  Richard  meets  Henry  and  consents. 
(6)  Lady  Alois. 

(c)  Richard  demands  the  truth  of  John. 

(d)  The  Court  at  Paris  (digression) . 

(e)  Richard's  audience  with  Alois. 
(/)  Richard  and  Henry. 

(g)  Gaston  is  despatched  to  Gisors. 
Scene  IV.  At  Saint  Pol-la- Marche. 

a.  Gaston's  arrival. 

b.  Gilles  and  Jehane. 

c.  Richard's  arrival  and  renunciation. 
Scene  V.  At  Autofort. 

a.  Arrival  of  Gaston  and  Richard. 

b.  THE  TENZON  WITH  BERTRAND. 

(Moment  of  Exciting  Force). 

c.  Richard's  resolution  and  departure. 

Act  ii  would  embrace  chapters  vi-xvn,  in  six  scenes, 
including  the  rising  action  in  general.  Act  in,  including 
the  first  five  chapters  of  the  second  book,  constitutes  the 
dramatic  climax  of  the  story,  which  occurs  actually 
toward  the  close  of  the  fourth  and  last  scene.  Act  iv, 
which  marks,  in  a  general  way,  the  dramatic  fall  in  three 
scenes,  extends  through  the  thirteenth  chapter  of  book 
ii.  The  closing  act  of  five  scenes  is  catastrophic  in  char- 
acter; it  includes  a  well-marked  moment  of  final  sus- 
pense as  well  as  the  final  catastrophe  itself  and  a  con- 
cluding post-dramatic  episode. 

(c)  Method  of  Story 

The  dramatic  type  of  plot  structure  suggests  the 
course  of  a  rocket,  which  reaches  the  height  of  its  flight 
and  is  already  well  advanced  on  its  return  before  it 
bursts.  But  there  are  other  pyrotechnic  devices  the 
climax  of  whose  flight  is  simultaneous  with  the  final 
display.  And  similarly  the  writer  of  narrative  often 
secures  his  effect  by  a  modification  of  the  dramatic 
method  so  marked  as  to  constitute  practically  a  new 


220    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

order  of  plot  structure.  This  we  have  termed  the 
"method  of  story."  In  such  cases  the  narrator  seeks 
to  secure  the  highest  emotional  tension.  The  element  of 
suspense  plays  a  more  important  part,  in  order  that  the 
culmination  —  in  this  case,  the  union  of  climax  and  ca- 
tastrophe —  may  constitute  the  most  important  stage  in 
the  action.  In  the  dramatic  structure  the  ultimate  issue 
of  the  denouement  is  more  or  less  clearly  indicated  early 
in  the  narrative.  The  actual  details  of  the  catastrophe 
may  not  be  accurately  outlined,  but  their  trend  is  clear 
enough.  The  climax  once  passed,  it  does  not  require  any 
unusual  degree  of  penetration  to  forecast  that  Macbeth's 
ambition  will  prove  fatal,  that  Eppie  will  change  the 
course  of  Silas's  life,  that  Haman  will  ultimately  give 
way  before  Mordecai..  The  method  of  story,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  especially  suited  to  those  narratives  in 
which  mystery  furnishes  the  motive  of  action.  Cer- 
tainly narratives  of  this  order  would  defeat  their  very 
end  were  the  culmination  betrayed,  or  even  indicated, 
midway  in  the  plot.  As  a  consequence,  the  main  con- 
cern of  the  writer  is*to  hold  the  issue  back  while  he  elab- 
orates all  the  details  that  may  render  the  culmination 
inevitable  when  it  finally  shall  occur.  As  an  example  of 
this  we  may  again  cite  Maupassant's  The  Necklace. 
Every  detail  of  this  narrative  is  so  ordered  as  to  insure 
the  dramatic  and  catastrophic  effect  of  the  closing  words : 
"Oh,  my  poor  Mathilde!  Why,  my  necklace  was  paste. 
It  was  worth  five  hundred  francs  at  most."  Aldrich's 
Marjorie  Daw  is  a  perfect  instance  of  the  method  of  story, 
closing,  as  it  does,  with  a  wholly  unexpected  crisis;  it 
dazes  the  reader  with  a  blow  of  surprise  and  —  leaves 
him. 

The  extent  to  which  this  type  of  structure  is  a  modifi- 
cation of  dramatic  plot  will  be  apparent  from  figure  11. 


THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION          221 

We  have  the  preliminary  exposition   (a),  the  exciting 
force  (6),  the  rise  (c),  and  the  climax-catastrophe  (d); 
but  of  a  return  through  falling  ac- 
tion there  is  no  sign. 

Generally,  however,  the  method 
of  story  is  less  abrupt  than  in  the 
type  exemplified  by  The  Necklace  or 
Marjorie  Daw.  The  climax-catas- 
trophe is  often  rounded  out,  as  it  were,  by  a  brief  but 
well-defined  conclusion.  Hardy's  The  Three  Strangers 
is  a  case  in  point.  The  climax  is  attained  as  soon  as 
the  reader  is  definitely  acquainted  with  the  identity 
of  the  three  wanderers  who  successively  make  their 
appearance  at  Shepherd  Fennel's  house  on  the  night 
of  the  storm.  But  after  that  point  has  been  reached 
the  author  continues  his  narrative  to  the  extent  of 
telling  us :  — 

The  bass- voiced  man  of  the  chimney-corner  was  never  re- 
captured. Some  said  that  he  went  across  the  sea,  others  that  he 
did  not,  but  buried  himself  in  the  depths  of  a  populous  city. 
At  any  rate,  the  gentleman  in  cinder-gray  never  did  his  morn- 
ing's work  at  Casterbridge,  nor  met  anywhere  at  all,  for  busi- 
ness purposes,  the  genial  comrade  with  whom  he  had  passed  an 
hour  of  relaxation  in  the  lonely  house  on  the  coomb. 

The  grass  has  long  been  green  on  the  graves  of  Shepherd 
Fennel  and  his  frugal  wife;  the  guests  who  made  up  the  chris- 
tening party  have  mainly  followed  their  entertainers  to  the 
tomb ;  the  baby  in  whose  honour  they  all  had  met  is  a  matron 
in  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf.  But  the  arrival  of  the  three  strang- 
ers at  the  shepherd's  that  night,  and  the  details  connected 
therewith,  is  a  story  as  well  known  as  ever  in  the  country  about 
Higher  Crowstairs.1 

1  Hardy's  Wessex  Tales.  Published  by  Harper  and  Brothers. 


222    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

The  diagram  of  a  story  of  this  character  is  shown  in 
,.      figure  12:   a'  representing  the  an- 
"—    tithesis  of  a,  a  sort  of  post-exposi- 
tion, so  to  speak. 

Suspense,  not  only  sustained  but 
cumulative,  adds  greatly  to  the 
movement  and  the  effectiveness  of 
plot  structure  thus  ordered.  Every  episode  will  increase 
the  complication  of  the  various  threads  of  action,  and, 
while  still  keeping  the  culmination  in  check,  will  stead- 
ily make  it  increasingly  inevitable,  so  to  speak.  In 
prospect  the  issue  will  not  be  conjectured;  in  retrospect 
every  detail  will  be  recognized  as  having  been  a  link  in 
one  unbroken  chain  of  causation. 

The  Black  Poodle,  by  F.  Anstey,  is  an  admirable  ex- 
ample of  this  type  of  structure,  illustrating  the  various 
analogies  to  the  dramatic  method  as  well  as  the  various 
points  of  divergence.  For  purposes  of  analysis  we  may 
consider  the  action  as  showing  six  distinct  stages :  (1)  pre- 
liminary exposition ;  (2)  introductory  action;  (3)  episode 
of  exciting  force;  (4)  rising  action  of  complication; 
(5)  climax-catastrophe;  and  (6)  conclusion.  The  pro- 
gress of  these  various  stages  will  be  clear  from  the  fol- 
lowing tabulation  of  action. 

THE   BLACK   POODLE 

1.  PRELIMINARY  EXPOSITION. 

a.  Motive  of  the  story. 

b.  Setting:  Wistaria  Villa. 

c.  Dramatis  personce:  the  Weatherheads. 

d.  Antecedent  action. 

2.  INTRODUCTORY  ACTION. 

a.  At  Shuturgarden. 

Introduction  of  Bingo. 


THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION          223 

Incipient  love  for  Lilian. 
Bingo's  hostility. 
b.  At  Wistaria  Villa. 
Feline  amenities. 

3.  MOMENT  OF  EXCITING  FORCE. 

Bingo's  death. 

4.  RISING  ACTION  OF  COMPLICATION. 

Complication  1.  In  the  garden  at  Wistaria  Villa. 

With  the  Colonel. 

Bingo's  burial. 

Visions. 
Complication  2.  At  Shuturgarden :  one  evening  later. 

Family  desolation. 

Weatherhead's  encouragement. 

Lilian's  incredulity. 
Complication  3.  At  Shuturgarden:  Sunday  evening. 

The  declaration. 

Lilian's  condition. 

Weatherhead's  resolution. 
Complication  4. 
a.  At  Blagg's. 

The  discovery  and  the  purchase. 
6.  At  Wistaria  Villa. 

The  restoration. 

The  dinner. 

Bingo's  accomplishments. 
Complication  5.  At  Wistaria  Villa. 

The  strolling  Frenchman. 

"Azor"! 

Compounding  a  felony. 

The  collar. 

5.  CLIMAX. 

Revelation  and  desperation. 

6.  CONCLUSION. 

The  tablet. 


224    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

The  course  of  the  story  might  be  diagramatically 
presented  as  in  figure  13. 


FIG.  13 

Emphasis 

Although  emphasis  in  plot  structure  has  already  of 
necessity  been  discussed  to  some  extent  in  connection 
with  coherence  and  climax,  —  yet  there  are  some  con- 
siderations that  belong  peculiarly  to  emphasis  per  se, 
and  should  receive  attention  before  we  dismiss  the  or- 
ganization of  plot  material.  It  is  to  be  observed  at  the 
outset  that  the  whole  matter  of  emphasis  in  the  arrange- 
ment of  plot  elements  is  in  the  main  nothing  more  than 
securing  increased  vividness.  Narrative  of  fact,  except 
for  picturesqueness  and  effectiveness  of  characteriza- 
tion, addresses  itself  primarily  to  the  understanding 
and  is  therefore  not  likely  to  take  liberties  in  the  order- 
ing of  facts  for  the  sake  of  more  vigorous  appeal.  Of 
course,  to  some  extent,  emphatic  phrasing  contributes 
to  clearness,  and  to  this  extent  is  intellectual  in  its  pur- 
pose, but  in  the  great  number  of  cases  emphasis  is  synon- 
ymous with  emotional  tension  and  its  aim  is  sustained 
interest.  It  is  in  narrative  that  appeals  to  the  imagina- 


THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION          225 

tion,  then,  in  the  novel  and  in  the  short-story,  that  we 
shall  find  best  illustration  of  ordering  details,  of  "mass- 
ing," for  the  sake  of  greater  emotional  effect. 

Almost  all  works  on  rhetoric  discuss  the  element  of 
emphasis  under  the  following  heads: — 

a.  Position  of  emphatic  elements;  massing. 
6.  Proportion. 
c.  Definiteness. 

Each  of  them  may  be  considered  briefly  in  its  relation 
to  plot  structure. 

(a)  Massing 

We  are  taught  that  in  the  sentence  and  in  the  para- 
graph the  position  of  greatest  effectiveness  is  at  the  be- 
ginning and  the  end;  that  to  imbed  the  central  theme  in 
a  welter  of  modifiers  and  commentary  elaboration  is  to 
destroy  the  forcefulness  of  the  thought.  The  following 
sentence  from  Macaulay's  essay  on  Milton  illustrates 
the  principle :  — 

We  disapprove,  we  repeat,  of  the  execution  of  Charles;  not 
because  the  constitution  exempts  the  King  from  responsibility, 
for  we  know  that  all  such  maxims,  however  excellent,  have 
their  exceptions;  nor  because  we  feel  any  peculiar  interest  in 
his  character,  for  we  think  that  his  sentence  describes  him  with 
perfect  justice  as  "a  tyrant,  a  traitor,  a  murderer,  and  a  public 
enemy";  but  because  we  are  convinced  that  the  measure  was 
most  injurious  to  the  cause  of  freedom. 

The  cardinal  thought  of  this  long  period  resides  in  the 
final  clause.  Transpose  this  clause  to  any  other  position 
in  the  sentence :  the  vigor  of  the  statement  is  lost  and  the 
assertion  becomes  painfully  ineffectual. 

The  cumulative  effect  of  judicious  massing  in  the 
paragraph  is  seen  in  the  following  passage  from  the 


226    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

same  essay.    The  paragraph,  as  they  say  of  the  track 
athlete,  "ends  strong."     It  is  vigorous  and  robust. 

Then  came  those  days,  never  to  be  recalled  without  a  blush, 
the  days  of  servitude  without  loyalty  and  sensuality  without 
love,  of  dwarfish  talents  and  gigantic  vices,  the  paradise  of 
cold  hearts  and  narrow  minds,  the  golden  age  of  the  coward, 
the  bigot,  and  the  slave.  The  King  cringed  to  his  rival  that  he 
might  trample  on  his  people,  sank  into  a  viceroy  of  France,  and 
pocketed,  with  complacent  infamy,  her  degrading  insults,  and 
her  more  degrading  gold.  The  caresses  of  harlots,  and  the 
jests  of  buffoons,  regulated  the  policy  of  the  State.  The  Gov- 
ernment had  just  ability  enough  to  deceive,  and  just  religion 
enough  to  persecute.  The  principles  of  liberty  were  the  scoff 
of  every  grinning  courtier,  and  the  Anathema  Maranatha  of 
every  fawning  dean.  In  every  high  place,  worship  was  paid 
to  Charles  and  James,  Belial  and  Moloch;  and  England  pro- 
pitiated those  obscene  and  cruel  idols  with  the  blood  of  her 
best  and  bravest  children.  Crime  succeeded  to  crime,  and  dis- 
grace to  disgrace,  till  the  race  accursed  of  God  and  man  was  a 
second  time  driven  forth,  to  wander  on  the  face  of  the  earth, 
and  to  be  a  by- word  and  a  shaking  of  the  head  to  the  nations. 

This  same  principle  of  initial  and  terminal  massing 
for  the  sake  of  increased  vigor  holds  equally  true  in 
the  larger  units  of  narrative  writing.  We  have  already 
noted  how  disappointing  and,  in  a  sense,  how  anti-cli- 
mactic are  the  narratives  that,  after  an  effective  massing 
of  plot  details,  weakly  trail  off  into  a  sort  of  literary  post- 
script. Indeed  were  it  not  for  the  catastrophe-culmina- 
tion of  the  dramatic  method,  the  medial  climax  would 
result  in  a  most  ineffectual  type  of  plot  structure.  The 
final  suspense  and  culmination  save  the  day. 

As  between  the  initial  and  the  terminal  position,  the 
terminal  offers  the  better  opportunity  for  effective  order- 
ing. In  almost  any  piece  of  narration  an  expository 
purpose  is  uppermost  at  the  outset;  the  interest  in  the 


THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION          227 

course  of  recorded  events  is  not  yet  aroused.  Once 
.  stirred,  however,  it  must  go  on  increasingly.  Hence  the 
necessity  of  culmination.  The  concluding  sentences  of 
the  forceful  narratives  already  cited  on  page  220  afford 
illustration  of  this  terminal  massing. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  are  occasions  when  initial 
ordering  of  details  serves  the  purpose  of  vigor.  Initial 
massing  is  familiar  in  those  narratives  that  by  dramatic 
introduction  seek  to  capture  the  attention  of  the  reader 
at  the  very  beginning  by  confronting  him  at  once  with 
a  crisis  in  action  or  with  a  bit  of  dramatic  setting.  Ex- 
amples of  the  device  appear  in  Balzac's  A  Passion  in 
the  Desert  or  in  Morrison's  On  the  Stairs. 

These  stories  illustrate  two  distinct  results  secured 
by  initial  massing.  On  the  one  hand,  as  in  A  Passion 
in  the  Desert,  initial  presentation  of  effective  mate- 
rial may  serve  to  overcome  the  mental  inertia  that 
amost  always  weighs  upon  the  reader  at  the  beginning 
of  a  story,  —  unless  he  be  spurred  on  by  intellectual 
curiosity,  as  in  the  case  of  the  scientist.  Every  one  is 
familiar  with  the  burden  of  getting  fairly  under  way 
that  attends  the  opening  of  an  extended  narrative. 
The  opening  chapter  of  Bleak  House,  for  example,  or  of 
Diana  of  the  Crossways,  is  so  long  in  hoisting  the  narra- 
tive anchor  that  many  a  reader  disembarks  without  de- 
lay and  seeks  passage  elsewhere.  Not  so,  however,  with 
the  type  of  story  typified  in  the  Balzac  narrative: — 

"  It  makes  me  shudder,"  she  exclaimed  as  she  came  out  of 
Monsieur  Martin's  menagerie.  She  had  been  watching  that 
daring  showman  as  he  "worked"  with  his  hyena  —  to  use  the 
words  of  the  handbills. 

The  love  of  adventure,  the  sense  of  peril,  is  at  once 
piqued,  and  sufficient  impetus  is  secured  without  delay 


228    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

to  carry  the  reader  over  the  expository  preface  necessary 
for  an  understanding  of  what  is  to  follow. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  writer  may  seek  to  establish 
i'  the  tone  of  the  narrative,  to  arouse  in  the  reader  an  ini- 
tial frame  of  mind  proper  for  appreciating  the  underly- 
ing spirit  of  the  composition.    This  is  true,  for  example, 
in  Morrison's  story:  — 

The  house  had  been  "genteel."  When  trade  was  prospering 
in  the  East  End,  and  the  ship-fitter  or  block-maker  thought  it 
no  shame  to  live  in  the  parish  where  his  workshop  lay,  such  a 
master  had  lived  here.  Now,  it  was  a  tall,  solid,  well-bricked, 
ugly  house,  grimy  and  paintless  in  the  joinery,  cracked  and 
patched  in  the  windows:  where  the  front  door  stood  open  all 
day  long;  and  the  womankind  sat  on  the  steps,  talking  of  sick- 
ness and  death  and  the  cost  of  things;  and  treacherous  holes 
lurked  in  the  carpet  of  road-soil  on  the  stairs  and  in  the  pas- 
sage. For  when  eight  families  live  in  a  house,  nobody  buys 
a  door-mat,  and  the  street  was  one  of  those  streets  that  are 
always  muddy.  It  smelt,  too,  of  many  things,  none  of  them 
pleasant  (one  was  fried  fish) ;  but  for  all  that  it  was  not  a  slum.1 

This  bit  of  distinctive  setting,  of  dramatic  description,  is 
essential  for  appreciation  of  what  follows,  and  the  open- 
ing has  an  effectiveness  that  is  clearly  evident  and 
catches  the  attention  at  the  very -threshold.  A  wonder- 
ful instance  of  the  same  thing  is  familiar  to  all  readers  of 
Hardy's  The  Return  of  the  Native,  where  the  sense  of  utter 
desolation  characteristic  of  the  heath  marks  the  opening 
of  the  narrative, — a  scene  pictured  with  such  masterly 
power  that  it  has  become  famous. 

A  further  device  of  position  in  the  interests  of  in- 
creased emphasis  is  illustrated  in  the  balanced  type  of 
structure,  of  which  Macaulay  is  so  fond.  The  following 
from  the  essay  on  John  Hampden  furnishes  an  example. 

1  From  Tales  of  Mean  Streets.  Copyright,  1895,  by  Roberts  Brothers. 


THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION          229 

Those  who  had  pulled  down  the  crucifix  could  not  long  con- 
tinue to  persecute  for  the  surplice.  It  required  no  great  saga- 
city to  perceive  the  inconsistency  and  dishonesty  of  men  who, 
dissenting  from  almost  all  Christendom,  would  suffer  none  to 
dissent  from  themselves,  who  demanded  freedom  of  conscience, 
yet  refused  to  grant  it,  who  execrated  persecution,  yet  perse- 
cuted, who  urged  reason  against  the  authority  of  one  opponent, 
and  authority  against  the  reasons  of  another.  Bonner  acted 
at  least  in  accordance  with  his  own  principles.  Cranmer  could 
vindicate  himself  from  the  charge  of  being  a  heretic  only  by 
arguments  which  made  him  out  to  be  a  murderer. 

The  effectiveness  of  this  military  precision  in  massing 
clauses  is  unquestionable  —  if  it  be  not  carried  to  the 
extreme.  But  the  balanced  structure  serves  merely  the 
purpose  of  occasional  literary  dress-parade;  it  is  not 
a  natural  and  spontaneous  method  of  expression.  The 
reader  speedily  becomes  conscious  of  the  deliberate  effort 
at  effective  grouping  and  loses  interest  in  the  thought 
itself.  Betrayal  of  insincerity  on  the  writer's  part  is 
always  fatal  to  sustained  vigor. 

The  principle  of  the  balanced  structure  is  illustrated 
in  extended  narrative  writing  in  two  distinct  ways: 

(a)  by  the  iteration  of  a  specified  passage  or  scene;  and 

(b)  by  the  succession  of  effectively  massed  episodes. 
Dickens's  A  Child's  Dream  of  a  Star  offers  an  instance 
of  the  first.    The  successive  stages  of  the  action  are 
grouped  about  the  refrain  six  times  repeated,  "And  the 
star  was  shining,"  so  that  the  whole  composition  pre- 
sents something  of  the  elaborately  ordered  scheme  repre- 
sented in  balanced  sentences.    The  same  type  of  parallel 
structure  may  be  found  in  even  more  extended  composi- 
tions. Bulwer  Lytton's  long  novel  The  Last  of  the  Barons 
is  an  example.   The  appearance  at  intervals  of  the  tim- 
brel girls  with  their  recurring  refrain,  — 


230    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

"But  death  to  the  dove 

Is  the  falcon's  love! 
Oh,  sharp  is  the  kiss  of  the  falcon's  beak!" 

offers  a  balancing  of  details  for  added  effect.  Some- 
times an  author  will  revert  to  a  particular  scene,  in- 
troducing the  characters  in  the  same  setting  again  and 
again,  seeking  by  the  process  of  association  to  gain 
emotional  power.  Ellen  Glasgow  in  The  Romance  of  a 
Plain  Man  has  utilized  as  a  setting  for  successive  epi- 
sodes the  old  garden  in  which  Sally  and  Ben  Starr  first 
met  in  early  days,  each  recurring  scene  deriving  much 
of  its  value  from  the  memories  associated  with  the  same 
background.  But  even  when  used  on  so  large  a  canvas 
as  a  complete  novel,  this  device  of  iteration  is  still  sub- 
ject to  the  peril  that  threatens  the  simple  balanced  sen- 
tence: if  the  realization  of  artificiality  prevails  over  the 
forcefulness  arising  from  orderly  arrangement,  all  emo- 
tional value  is  lost. 

The  second  variation  of  the  balanced  structure,  the 
succession  of  similarly  massed  episodes,  is  illustrated  in 
Richard  Yea-and-Nay.  In  this  case  the  balance  appears 
in  that  even  the  various  episodes,  as  well  as  the  work  as 
a  whole,  are,  in  general,  constructed  successively  on  the 
dramatic  plan.  Many  of  them  are  ordered  with  rise, 
climax,  and  fall  of  their  own.  The  general  plot  ordering 
follows  the  subjoined  diagram :  — 


FIG.  14 


THE  ORDERING   OF  THE  ACTION          231 

The  exposition,  it  will  be  seen,  consists  of  five  epi- 
sodes, each  one  of  which  is  in  some  degree  dramatic  in 
its  own  structure.  The  rise,  in  turn,  is  made  up  of  six 
similarly  constructed  episodes;  and  so  on.  It  is  not  to  be 
inferred  that  the  story  is  so  perfectly  and  mechanically 
organized  as  the  formal  diagram  might  seem  to  indicate; 
at  the  same  time,  the  approximation  is  sufficiently  re- 
markable. In  general,  the  narrative  shows  distinct  sim- 
ilarity in  the  coordinated  elements,  or  episodes,  —  and 
this  is  the  fundamental  principle  of  the  balanced  struct- 
ure. 

Another  phase  of  this  systematic  and  balanced  order- 
ing of  plot  elements  may  be  found  in  those  narratives 
whose  episodes  successively  terminate  in  moments  of 
suspense,  thus  causing  the  story  to  progress  by  a  series 
of  climax-culminations,  or  dramatic  situations,  as  in  a 
play,  thus:  — 

,•-'/  (  at  conclusion* 


' 


^Emotional  /eve/ 
~\at  beginning 


FIG.   15 


The  main  line  of  the  plot  action,  indicated  by  the  dotted 
line  ab,  steadily  rises,  each  episode  taking  up  the  thread 
from  a  point  of  increased  emotional  tension,  at  which  it 
was  left  by  the  culmination  of  the  episode  preceding. 
In  narratives  of  this  order,  the  principle  of  balance  is 
evident  by  the  climax  of  suspense  that  marks  the  closing 
words  of  each  episode.  Hardy's  gruesome  short-story 


232    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

The  Withered  Arm  is  fairly  representative  of  this  term- 
inal balance  in  successive  episodes,  as  will  be  apparent 
if  one  examines  the  concluding  paragraph  of  each  plot 
division.  There  is  about  these  concluding  periods  a  pecul- 
iar air  of  suspense,  of  situation, — especially  marked  in 
i,  in,  v,  vi,  vii,  and  vm,  —  that  almost  leads  the  reader 
to  expect  the  conventional  stage-direction  "Curtain" 

The  ordering  of  the  narrative  elements  so  as  to  produce 
contrast  is  a  further  means  of  attaining  emotional 
vigor.  As  the  contrasting  lights  and  shadows  of  a  Rem- 
brandt are  effective,  so  in  narrative  the  juxtaposition  of 
unlike  scenes  promotes  forcefulness.  A  typical  instance 
may  be  found  in  Macaulay's  essay  on  Sir  William 
Temple,  where  he  ranges  the  character  of  Halifax  against 
that  of  Shaftesbury:  — 

His  (Halifax's)  mind  was  much  less  turned  to  particular  ob- 
servations, and  much  more  to  general  speculations,  than  that 
of  Shaftesbury.  Shaftesbury  knew  the  King,  the  Council,  the 
Parliament,  the  City,  better  than  Halifax;  but  Halifax  would 
have  written  a  far  better  treatise  on  political  science  than 
Shaftesbury.  Shaftesbury  shone  more  in  consultation  and 
Halifax  in  controversy :  Shaftesbury  was  more  fertile  in  expe- 
dients, and  Halifax  in  arguments.  .  .  .  He  brought  forward 
with  wonderful  readiness  and  copiousness,  arguments,  replies 
to  those  arguments,  rejoinders  to  those  replies,  general  max- 
ims of  policy,  and  analogous  cases  from  history.  But  Shaftes- 
bury was  the  man  for  a  prompt  decision.  Of  the  parlia- 
mentary eloquence  of  these  celebrated  rivals,  we  can  judge 
only  by  report;  and  so  judging,  we  should  be  inclined  to 
think  that,  though  Shaftesbury  was  a  distinguished  speaker, 
the  superiority  belonged  to  Halifax.  .  .  .  The  power  of 
Shaftesbury  over  large  masses  was  unrivalled.  Halifax  was 
disqualified  by  his  whole  character,  moral  and  intellectual, 
for  the  part  of  a  demagogue.  It  was  in  small  circles,  and, 


THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION          233 

above  all,  in  the  House  of  Lords,  that  his  ascendancy  was 
felt. 

In  narrative  writing  this  method  of  ordering  is  effect- 
ive in  a  variety  of  ways:  in  setting,  in  character,  in  ac- 
tion, contrast  may  serve  the  ends  of  forcefulness.  In 
Tess  the  three  stages  of  the  heroine's  life  are  rendered  all 
the  more  effective  from  their  projection  against  the 
wholly  unlike  backgrounds  of  Blackmore  Vale,  the  val- 
ley of  the  Froom,  and  Flintcombe-Ash.  In  Prescott's 
Conquest  of  Peru  the  character  of  the  pedantic  martinet 
Blasco  Nunez  is  made  more  forceful  by  being  brought 
into  adversative  correlation  with  that  of  the  keen  and 
practical  Pedro  de  la  Gasca.  And  similarly,  details  of 
action  by  the  same  method  of  antithesis  receive  added 
dramatic  effectiveness.  No  reader  of  Vanity  Fair  can 
fail  to  realize  the  emotional  effectiveness  of  the  sudden 
contrast  that  distinguishes  the  transition  from  chapter 
xxn  to  chapter  xxm.  On  the  one  hand  is  the  scene  of 
carnage  and  confusion  closing  with  the  famous  para- 
graph, - 

No  more  firing  was  heard  at  Brussels  —  the  pursuit  rolled 
miles  away.  Darkness  came  down  on  the  field  and  city :  and 
Amelia  was  praying  for  George,  who  was  lying  on  his  face, 
dead,  with  a  bullet  through  his  heart; 

and  on  the  other,  the  quiet  of  Brighton,  where  Miss 
Crawley  was  passing  her  uneventful  days,  very  little 
moved  by  the  great  events  that  attended  the  making 
and  unmaking  of  empires. 

(6)   Proportion 

One  of  the  most  effective  means  of  holding  interest,  — 
that  is,  of  securing  rhetorical  emphasis,  —  is  to  give 
each  essential  element  in  the  narrative  its  proportionate 


234    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

amount  of  space;  or,  to  state  it  negatively,  to  give  it  no 
more  elaboration  than  it  deserves.  This  means  that  the 
writer  shall  have  a  clear  idea  of  his  controlling  thought 
before  he  can  duly  enforce  it.  As  the  definition  of  nar- 
ration makes  evident,  the  main  purpose  of  narrative 
writing  is  the  setting  in  order,  the  developing,  of  the  event. 
It  is  clear,  then,  that  setting  and  characterization  must 
receive  relatively  less  elaboration  than  action.  But  this 
is  only  a  general  statement  of  the  principle  of  propor- 
tion. In  the  exposition  of  the  action  many  questions 
arise  as  to  relative  values:  episodes  of  one  order  and  an- 
other; details  of  rise  and  fall,  of  climax  and  catastrophe. 
The  principle  of  proportion  plays  its  part  in  the  relative 
ordering  of  each  of  these.  The  precise  adjustment,  for 
example,  of  the  amount  of  description  or  characterization 
necessary  for  preliminary  exposition  in  a  dramatic  plot 
is  a  very  nice  matter,  for  the  moment  that  the  non-nar- 
rative matter  begins  to  encroach  upon  the  main  business 
of  the  plot  structure,  proportion  is  lost  and  interest 
suffers.  Professor  Baldwin  in  his  Composition,  Oral 
and  Written1  has  well  illustrated  this  matter  by 
Lincoln's  Gettysburg  Address.  He  shows  that  the  core 
idea  of  the  whole  composition  is  the  sentence:  The  best 
honor  that  we  can  pay  these  dead  soldiers  is  to  preserve  the 
Union  for  which  they  died.  In  other  words,  the  speech 
looks  principally  to  the  future:  references  to  the  present 
and  past  are  merely  accessory.  A  single  sentence,  the 
first,  concerns  the  past;  the  next  three  sentences  deal 
with  the  present,  indeed,  but  with  a  distinctly  prospect- 
ive purpose;  and  all  that  remains,  consisting  of  more  than 
half  the  address,  is  an  appeal  for  devotion  to  the  Union 
in  the  years  to  come.  In  this  way,  by  due  proportion- 
ing of  the  space,  the  main  idea  is  emphasized. 
1  Pp.  20-22. 


THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION          235 

This  same  principle  controls  the  writer  of  extended 
narrative.  If  he  chronicle  facts  of  history,  he  must  so 
compress  his  work,  by  the  exclusion  of  superfluous  de- 
tail and  by  accurate  judgment  as  to  relative  values,  that 
the  completed  work  shall  adequately  bring  out  the  cen- 
tral theme  and  give  unity  and  emphasis  to  the  finished 
result.  It  is  in  this  respect,  according  to  J.  F.  Rhodes  in 
an  article  published  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  in  February, 
1900,  that  Thucydides  and  Tacitus  are  superior  to  the 
historians  of  our  own  time:  they  have  better  digested 
their  material,  and,  therefore,  are  less  prone  to  give  dis- 
proportionate space  to  details  of  relatively  little  import- 
ance. The  writer  says :  — 

One  reason  why  Macaulay  is  so  prolix  is  because  he  could 
not  resist  the  temptation  to  treat  events  which  had  a  pictur- 
esque side  and  which  were  suited  to  his  literary  style;  so  that, 
as  John  Morley  says,  "in  many  portions  of  his  too  elaborated 
history  of  William  III.  he  describes  a  large  number  of  events 
about  which,  I  think,  no  sensible  man  can  in  the  least  care 
either  how  they  happened,  or  indeed  whether  they  happened 
at  all  or  not."  If  I  am  right  in  my  supposition  that  Thucydides 
and  Tacitus  had  a  mass  of  materials,  they  showed  reserve  and 
discretion  in  throwing  a  large  part  of  them  away,  as  not  being 
necessary  or  important  to  the  posterity  for  which  they  were 
writing.  This  could  only  be  the  result  of  a  careful  comparison 
of  their  materials,  and  of  long  meditation  on  their  relative 
value.  I  suspect  that  they  cared  little  whether  a  set  daily  task 
was  accomplished  or  not;  for  if  you  propose  to  write  only  one 
large  volume  or  four  moderate-sized  volumes  in  a  lifetime,  art 
is  not  too  long  nor  is  life  too  short. 

And  as  with  history  so  with  the  narrative  of  fiction : 
the  central  theme,  with  especial  view  to  its  culmination, 
must  never  be  lost.  Whether  it  be  the  solution  of  a 
mystery,  as  in  The  Gold  Bug;  the  crisis  of  a  personal  ex- 


236    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

perience,  as  in  Flute  and  Violin;  increasing  tension  lead- 
ing to  sudden  solution,  as  in  Marjorie  Daw;  a  character 
study,  like  Richard  Fever  el;  —  whatever  be  the  theme, 
subsidiary  matter  must  be  treated  as  subsidiary  matter, 
for  only  as  it  contributes  to  the  main  theme  and  itself 
remains  subordinated  to  that  theme,  will  it  be  effective 
and  contribute  to  ultimate  interest. 

Hardy's  The  Three  Strangers  affords  example  of  well- 
sustained  proportion  in  plot  structure.  The  theme  about 
which  the  action  turns  is  primarily  the  identity  of  the 
first  stranger,  and,  in  less  degree,  that  of  the  other  two. 
The  development  of  the  plot  idea  is  furthered,  not  by 
action  alone,  but  by  setting,  by  characterization,  and  by 
direct  exposition.  The  background  of  Wessex  rusticity 
and  the  tempestuous  night,  Mrs.  Fennel's  anxiety  for 
her  supply  of  mead,  the  booming  of  the  gun  from  the 
jail  at  Casterbridge:  —  these  and  other  details  tend  to 
heighten  the  mystery  of  the  three  travelers  who  seek 
shelter  at  the  shepherd's  cottage.  Dialogue  affords  the 
main  avenue  of  plot  action,  and  here  the  importance  of 
the  three  strangers  is  made  evident.  Nearly  one  third 
of  this  portion  .of  the  story  is  devoted  to  the  words  of  the 
principal  actors,  mainly  to  those  of  the  first  and  second 
strangers.  Space  is  given  to  them  in  proportion  to  their 
importance  in  the  action;  the  paragraphs  in  which  they 
enter  directly  and  indirectly  constitute  by  far  the  major 
part  of  the  entire  composition.  Of  digression  and  elab- 
oration of  non-contributive  detail  there  is  practically 
little.  By  this  due  attention  to  proportion  unity  is  se- 
cured and  the  interest  which  is  concentrated  on  the 
principal  personages  increases  the  emphasis  of  the  nar- 
rative. 


THE  ORDERING  OF  THE  ACTION          237 

(c)  Definiteness 

In  closing  the  consideration  of  the  various  characteris- 
tics that  contribute  to  interest,  a  word  should  be  added 
with  reference  to  the  third  element  mentioned  on  page 
225:  definiteness,  or  clearness.  Clearness  in  this  con- 
nection, however,  does  not  signify  mere  lucidity  of 
phraseology  as  seen  in  the  careful  ordering  of  clauses, 
phrases,  and  single  words.  In  plot  structure,  clearness 
has  reference  rather  to  the  ordering  of  the  plot  elements, 
—  whether  they  appear  in  connection  with  setting,  char- 
acterization, or  action,  —  in  such  manner  that  they 
shall  leave  no  doubt  as  to  the  trend  of  the  various  plot 
threads,  the  precise  nature  of  the  complication,  the 
definite  course  of  events  leading  to  the  culmination. 
Clearness  in  setting  or  in  characterization  per  se  is,  of 
course,  a  fundamental  essential.  Abundance  of  detail, 
concreteness  of  detail,  must  be  clearly  observed;  but, 
more  than  this,  the  contribution  that  the  clearly  defined 
scene  or  the  accurately  portrayed  personality  makes 
to  the  main  business  of  the  narrative  must  be  equally 
evident.  For  example,  it  is  not  enough  that  the  picture 
of  Upper  Crowstairs  on  the  boisterous  March  night  of 
the  Fennel  christening  be  so  photographic  that  we  can 
see  even  the  little  birds  themselves  "their  tails  blown 
inside  out  like  umbrellas"  as  they  seek  security  from  the 
storm.  The  bearing  of  this  tempestuous  scene  upon  the 
course  of  the  events  chronicled  must  also  be  evident. 
Green's  characterization  of  Queen  Elizabeth  may  be  as 
definite  and  objective  as  is  her  ghastly  effigy  in  West- 
minster Abbey,  yet  clearness  in  historic  plot  structure  is 
lacking  unless  we  are  made  to  see  just  how  that  person- 
ality was  an  essential  influence  in  the  events  that  con- 
stitute the  Elizabethan  Age  of  English  History.  And 


238    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

so  is  it  with  details  of  action:  the  deeds  and  words  of 
the  man  in  cinder  gray  and  of  the  pale-faced  third 
traveler  must  clearly  promote  the  culmination  of  the 
mystery  of  the  three  strangers  and  its  resolution.  The 
historical  details  of  war  and  peace,  of  intrigue  and 
duplicity,  of  political,  social,  and  industrial  develop- 
ment, —  all  these  must  combine  to  form  a  distinct 
trend  in  the  direction  of  the  England  that  followed 
Elizabeth's  day,  if  there  is  to  be  clearness  of  plot  struc- 
ture. 


CHAPTER  VII 
FORMS  OF  NARRATIVE  LITERATURE 

THE  discussion  of  narration  has  thus  far  been  structural 
in  its  application.  We  have  taken  up  in  detail  the  vari- 
ous elements  that  contribute  to  the  narrative  effect  and 
the  rhetorical  qualities  that  are  essential  to  each  in  turn. 
The  purpose  of  the  present  chapter  is  to  review  briefly 
the  principal  literary  forms  into  which  narration  may  be 
divided.  These  we  may  group  as  follows: —  . 

I.  The  narrative  of  fact: 

a.  History  and  memoirs. 

b.  Biography. 

II.  The  narrative  of  imagination: 

a.  The  Novel. 

b.  The  Short-story. 

• 

I.  THE  NARRATIVE  OF  FACT 

History 

It  has  been  said  that  history  is  the  highest  form  of 
literature;  that  it  belongs  to  a  more  advanced  order  of 
intellectual  effort  than  does  the  essay,  the  epic,  the  lyric, 
the  drama,  or  the  novel.  But  to  attempt  any  definite 
ranking  of  the  various  forms  of  literary  expression  on  the 
basis  of  comparative  excellence  is  vain.  The  premises 
essential  to  relative  judgment  are  lacking.  The  effort 
to  demonstrate  that  Thucydides  is  superior  to  Homer, 
for  instance,  suggests  the  type  of  forensic  propositions 
at  one  time  very  popular,  such  as,  Resolved  that 


240    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

Napoleon  was  a  greater  man  than  Shakespeare;  that 
the  profession  of  the  law  has  been  of  greater  benefit  to 
man  than  has  that  of  medicine;  and  the  like.  To  prove 
the  superiority  of  one  thing  over  another  we  must  have 
some  common  denominator.  But  so  numerous  and  so 
diverse  in  their  essential  characteristics  are  the  various 
types  of  literature  that  we  cannot  thus  range  them 
side  by  side  for  comparative  valuation.  The  appeal  of 
the  drama  and  the  appeal  of  history,  for  example,  are 
utterly  unlike;  to  say,  then,  that  Macbeth  is,  as  a  piece 
of  literature,  superior  or  inferior  to  the  Germania  or- the 
Peloponnesian  War  is  a  critical  impossibility.  And  so 
also  of  the  various  phases  that  constitute  narrative 
writing,  —  history  and  the  novel,  let  us  say.  We  may 
indeed  compare  them  as  to  the  effectiveness  of  those 
qualities  that  they  possess  in  common,  —  character- 
ization, coherence  in  organization  of  plot,  and  so  on, 
—  but  we  cannot  compare  them  as  integral  wholes. 
They  are  fundamentally  unlike.  History,  in  one  import- 
ant sense,  is  intellectual  in  essence;  fiction  is  emotional. 
But  every  student  of  *  literature  knows  that  he  cannot 
decry  either  of  these  fundamentals  at  the  expense  of  the 
other.  Far  more  reasonable,  then,  would  it  be  to  say  no 
more  than  this,  —  that  among  the  forms  of  narrative 
writing,  history,  in  the  hands  of  the  masters,  holds  high 
rank  in  the  scale  of  literary  expression. 

From  time  to  time  in  discussing  the  various  constitu- 
ent elements  of  narration  we  have  had  occasion  to  men- 
tion their  specific  application  to  history  as  well  as  to 
other  narrative  forms.  At  this  point  we  may  well  look 
for  the  characteristics  that  in  general  distinguish  this 
type  of  literature  and  set  it  apart  from  the  other 
forms.  Various  critics  of  historical  literature  have  laid 
emphasis  on  widely  differing  fundamental  qualities  as 


FORMS  OF  NARRATIVE  LITERATURE      241 

essential  to  the  historian.  We  shall  perhaps  make  no 
serious  mistake  if  we  follow  the  judgment  of  one  who,  in 
spite  of  glaring  faults,  yet  ranks  among  the  greatest  of 
English  historiographers,  —  Macaulay.  Macaulay,  in 
his  essay  on  Hallam's  Constitutional  History  of  England, 
has  said:  — 

Mr.  Hallam  is,  on  the  whole,  far  better  qualified  than  any 
other  writer  of  our  time  for  the  office  which  he  has  undertaken. 
He  has  great  industry  and  great  acuteness.  His  knowledge  is 
extensive,  various,  and  profound.  His  mind  is  equally  distin- 
guished by  the  amplitude  of  its  grasp,  and  by  the  delicacy  of 
its  tact.  His  speculations  have  none  of  that  vagueness  which 
is  the  common  fault  of  political  philosophy.  On  the  contrary, 
they  are  strikingly  practical,  and  teach  us  not  only  the  general 
rule,  but  the  mode  of  applying  it  to  solve  particular  cases. 
.  .  .  The  language,  even  where  most  faulty,  is  weighty  and 
massive,  and  indicates  strong  sense  in  every  line.  It  often 
rises  to  an  eloquence,  not  florid  or  impassioned,  but  high,  grave, 
and  sober;  such  as  would  become  a  state  paper,  or  a  judgment 
delivered  by  a  great  magistrate,  a  Somers  or  a  D'Aguesseau. 

In  this  respect  the  character  of  Mr.  Hallam's  mind  corre- 
sponds strikingly  with  that  of  his  style.  His  work  is  eminently 
judicial.  Its  whole  spirit  is  that  of  the  bench,  not  that  of  the 
bar.  He  sums  up  with  a  calm,  steady  impartiality,  turning 
neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  glossing  over  nothing,  exag- 
gerating nothing,  while  the  advocates  on  both  sides  are  alter- 
nately biting  their  lips  to  hear  their  conflicting  mis-statements 
and  sophisms  exposed.  On  a  general  survey,  we  do  not  scruple 
to  pronounce  the  Constitutional  History  the  most  impartial 
book  that  we  ever  read. 

What,  then,  are  the  essential  characteristics  that 
Macaulay  here  sets  down  as  distinctive  of  the  ideal  his- 
torian? They  would  seem  to  arrange  themselves  under 
the  following  heads:  — 


242    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

1.  Industry  and  extended  information. 

2.  Clear  and  acute  powers  of  observation. 

3.  The  judicial  sense,  including 

a.  Keen  reasoning  power  and 

b.  Freedom  from  prejudice. 

4.  Power  of  expression:  style. 

Of  these  the  first  is  fundamental  to  the  rest.  It  is  es- 
sential that  the  historian  have  an  extensive  fund  of  data 
at  his  command,  in  order  that  his  powers  of  selection  and 
of  reasoning  shall  have  full  play.  It  may  be  that,  like 
Thucydides  of  old,  or  like  John  C.  Ropes  among  our  own 
historians,  he  seeks  his  material  from  those  who  have 
borne  their  part  in  the  very  incidents  that  he  would 
chronicle;  or,  it  may  be,  as  with  Grote  and  Macaulay, 
that  he  must  pore  over  the  records  of  other  chroniclers. 
In  any  case,  the  field  of  observation  must  be  broad,  or 
generalizations  will  have  little  value.  Great  historians 
are  great  students,  patient  and  persistent  readers.  The 
author  of  The  Peloponnesian  War  gave  the  greater  part 
of  a  long  life  to  collecting  the  material  of  his  master- 
piece. Twelve  years  of  thought  and  preparation  elapsed 
between  the  time  when  Gibbon  conceived  the  plan  of 
his  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire  and  the  appear- 
ance of  the  first  volume;  twelve  more  had  passed  before 
the  last  was  printed. 

But  mere  industry  is  not  sufficient;  with  it  must  go 
acute  power  of  observation.  We  have  already  shown  that 
among  the  various  elements  of  narration  unity  is  ever 
essential,  and  to  secure  unity  there  must  be  power  of 
selection.  A  mere  welter  of  facts  will  not  enable  one 
to  characterize  aptly  or  to  record  consistently.  The 
charge  most  frequently  brought  against  Macaulay  is 
that,  although  his  mind  was  a  marvelous  storehouse 
of  facts,  yet  he  lacked  the  power  to  select  and  to  re- 


FORMS  OF  NARRATIVE  LITERATURE      243 

ject.  A  picturesque  scene,  a  dramatic  character,  a 
stirring  situation,  would  so  arouse  his  imagination  that 
he  would  give  to  his  theme  disproportionate  elabora- 
tion, and  he  would  treat  with  scant  detail  other  more 
prosaic  data  to  the  real  value  of  which  he  was  blind. 
It  has  been  said  that  in  the  power  to  assimilate  thor- 
oughly and  then  to  write  with  ideal  conciseness  the  an- 
cient historians  excel  the  modern;  but  that  in  the  power 
to  analyze,  to  establish  the  sequence  of  cause  and  effect, 
as  well  as  in  the  power  to  generalize,  the  converse  is  true. 

This  leads  us  to  note  that  since  the  second  quarter  of 
the  nineteenth  century  there  has  been  a  distinct  develop- 
ment of  what  has  been  called  the  "historic  sense."  That 
is  to  say,  the  methods  of  science  have  entered  into  the 
field  of  literature,  and  such  terms  as  "environment," 
"heredity,"  and  "evolution"  are  to-day  as  common  in 
the  vocabulary  of  literary  criticism  as  in  that  of  biology 
and  physiology.  The  historian  is  no  longer  satisfied  to  set 
in  order  victories  by  land  and  by  sea,  or  the  bare  data 
of  a  political  campaign;  he  traces  events  to  their  sources, 
he  establishes  trends  of  political  development;  analysis, 
synthesis,  generalization,  the  varied  tests  of  evidence,  — 
all  these  are  essential  to  the  very  web  of  his  narrative. 

At  this  point  we  find  the  articulation  between  the  in- 
tellectual and  the  emotional  aspects  of  historical  narra- 
tive. The  collation  of  material,  the  processes  of  selection 
and  omission,  and  the  judicial  attitude  toward  all  mat- 
ters of  historical  evidence,  are  largely  questions  of  intel- 
lect. But  to  the  judicial  attitude  we  must  of  course 
couple  the  necessity  for  impartiality,  the  discounting  of 
what  is  usually  termed  "the  personal  equation."  His- 
torical narrative  is  ultimately  the  record  of  actual  fact; 
truth  is  its  very  cornerstone.  To  the  historian  —  and 
preeminently  to  the  modern  "scientific"  historian  — 


244    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION  , 

credulity,  exaggeration,  prejudice  are  anathema.  For  the 
"  travelogues  "  of  Herodotus,  as  for  the  vigorous  pictures 
of  Macaulay,  he  cares  as  little  as  for  the  romances  of 
Scott  or  Dumas.  And  yet  it  is  not  to  be  denied  that  the 
Father  of  History,  as  well  as  many  of  his  successors  to 
whom  scientific  methods  were  unknown,  have  produced 
work  that  must  rank  among  the  permanent  monuments 
of  the  world's  literature.  In  other  words,  the  literature  of 
history,  like  all  literature,  demands  something  more  than 
facts,  however  logically  ordered  and  well  authenticated. 
Meteorological  or  obituary  records,  parliamentary  re- 
ports, and  state  papers  may  be  reliable  beyond  possibility 
of  question,  yet  they  are  not  literature.  That  intangible 
thing  that  we  call  "  style  "  is  lacking,  and  in  all  those  re- 
cords of  thought  that  the  world  does  not  willingly  let  die 
style  in  some  form  exists.  The  attempts  to  define  this 
abstraction  have  been  legion,  but  in  this  respect  there  is 
little  deviation  among  them,  that  in  some  indefinable 
way  style  carries  with  it  the  individuality  of  the  writer. 
In  one  of  its  aspects,  therefore,  literature  is  personal. 
The  historian,  then,  must  not  limit  himself  to  the  bare 
registration  of  facts,  however  true,  or  to  processes  of 
reasoning,  however  logical.  Nor,  on  the  other  hand,  al- 
though in  his  exhilaration  he  may  compose  periods  that 
rival  in  fervor  those  of  Milton  or  Ruskin,  will  he  allow 
himself  to  be  swept  away  by  enthusiasm  or  prejudice. 
The  dignity  of  historical  narrative  lies  in  the  nice  adjust- 
ment of  all  the  constituent  qualities. 

Among  these  qualities  are  accuracy  and  interest. 
Macaulay 's  purpose  was  to  be*  interesting,  to  write  a 
history  that  should  supersede  the  latest  romance  on 
the  tables  of  young  ladies.  Of  his  success  there  can 
be  no  question.  Picturesque  setting,  vigorous  charac- 
terization, and  a  marvelous  style  contribute  to  give 


FORMS  OF  NARRATIVE  LITERATURE      245 

vigor  to  the  main  business  of  the  narrative.  But  his 
very  energy,  often  lapsing  into  superheated  enthusiasm 
and  prejudice,  has  done  much  to  imperil  his  standing 
among  the  great  historians.  Froude  is  even  a  more 
striking  example,  for  in  his  case  the  inaccuracies  are  so 
serious  as  to  offset  the  virtues  of  his  style.  It  has  been 
said  that  in  a  short  time  one  comes  to  know  Macaulay 
so  well  as  to  discount  his  exaggerations  and  not  miss 
the  truth;  but  that  Froude 's  inaccuracies  are  constitu- 
tional and  inexplicable. 

Interest  and  accuracy,  however,  are  not  incompatible, 
as  may  be  seen  in  the  case  of  the  great  English  master  of 
historical  writing.  "Gibbon,"  says  J.  F.  Rhodes,  quot- 
ing Bury,  "is  'the  historian  and  the  man  of  letters,'  thus 
ranking  with  Thucydides  and  Tacitus.  These  three  are 
put  in  the  highest  class,  exemplifying  that  'brilliance  of 
style  and  accuracy  of  statement  are  perfectly  compat- 
ible in  an  historian.'" 

Scientific  adherence  to  truth,  on  the  one  hand,  and 
adequate  expression,  on  the  other,  between  which  history 
must  steer  its  course,  without  veering  unduly  toward 
either  if  it  would  be  regarded  as  literature,  have  their 
own  definite  relations  to  each  of  the  three  main  con- 
tributive  elements  under  which  we  'have  considered 
narrative  writing. 

In  the  first  place,  the  historian  will  lay  less  stress  on 
dramatic  setting  than  will  the  writer  of  fiction.  Dramatic 
setting  makes  for  aesthetic  effectiveness;  its  appeal  is 
in  large  degree  to  the  imagination;  it  is  likely  to  lead 
one  aside  into  the  realm  of  fantasy.  In  fiction,  on  the 
other  hand,  where  the  imagination  plays  so  important 
a  role,  dramatic  setting  is  correspondingly  more  import- 
ant and  may  be  used  with  far  greater  freedom.  With 
expository  setting  the  danger  of  over-emphasis  is  less, 


246    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

for,  in  this  case,  the  background  increases  the  effect  of 
the  action,  at  the  same  time  presenting  only  details  that 
have  as  much  basis  in  fact  as  does  the  action  itself. 
The  Decline  and  Fall,  to  be  sure,  abounds  in  gorgeous 
imagery  and  pageants,  yet  the  value  of  the  great  work 
as  veritable  history  is  not  lessened  by  the  richness  of 
the  coloring.  Here  and  there  a  voice  is  raised  in  accusa- 
tion of  pomposity  and  bombast,  but  the  general  con- 
sensus of  critical  opinion  is  in  accord  with  the  verdict 
of  Mommsen,  the  great  German  historian,  who  wrote: 

Amid  all  the  changes  that  have  come  over  the  study  of  the 
history  of  the  Roman  Empire,  in  spite  of  all  the  rush  of  the  new 
evidence  that  has  poured  in  upon  us  and  almost  overwhelmed 
us,  in  spite  of  changes  which  must  be  made,  in  spite  of  altera- 
tions of  view,  or  alterations  even  in  the  aspect  of  great  charac- 
ters, no  one  would  in  the  future  be  able  to  read  the  history  of  the 
Roman  Empire  unless  he  read,  possibly  with  a  fuller  knowledge, 
but  with  the  broad  views,  the  clear  insight,  the  strong  grasp 
of  Edward  Gibbon.1 

With  characterization  history  is  more  closely  con- 
cerned than  with  setting.  "Give  me  the  series  of  great 
men,"  has  said  an  eminent  writer,  "and  I  will  tell  you 
the  history  of  the  race;  because  history  is  best  repre- 
sented by  important  individuals."  If  this  be  true,  it 
becomes  evident  that  the  portrayal  of  personages  and 
the  exposition  of  personality  will  enter  very  definitely 
into  the  record  of  events  in  which  human  agency  plays 
its  part.  At  this  very  point,  however,  lies  the  danger 
of  personal  bias  on  the  part  of  the  historian  with  conse- 
quent failure  to  maintain  the  judicial  impartiality  fun- 
damental to  the  historic  sense.  Toward  the  impersonal 
background  the  historian  feels  no  prejudice,  save  as  he 

1  Quoted  by  J.  F.  Rhodes  from  London  Times,  Nov.  16,  1894,  in 
Historical  Essays. 


FORMS  OF  NARRATIVE  LITERATURE      247 

may  be  aesthetically  attracted  or  repelled  by  its  artistic 
possibilities.  But  once  confront  him  with  men  of  like 
passions  with  himself,  and  straightway  a  partisan  atti- 
tude becomes  easy.  Oddly  enough  we  find  the  readiest 
example  of  this  in  the  very  historian  whom  we  have 
quoted  as  praising  another  for  unprejudiced  judgment. 
Although  Macaulay  wrote  of  Hallam  as  already  cited  on 
page  241,  yet  Macaulay  *s  own  inability  to  maintain 
a  judicial  calm  in  his  estimate  of  great  historical  char- 
acters has  become  a  proverb.  No  one  can  read  his  His- 
tory or  his  essays  without  realizing  his  violent  partisan- 
ship. Elijah  Impey  is  a  political  time-server;  Newcastle 
a  driveling  idiot;  Charles  I.  " a  tyrant,  traitor,  murderer, 
and  public  enemy."  On  the  other  hand,  of  William  of 
Orange  and  of  all  those  statesmen  who  stood  as  cham- 
pions for  constitutional  liberty  and  against  high  prerog- 
ative it  might  indeed  be  inferred  that,  like  the  Puritans, 
they  were  noblemen  by  the  imposition  of  the  hand  of 
God,  ministered  to  and  inspired  by  the  angels  of  the 
Most  High.  But  this  consistent  attitude  as  counsel  for 
the  prosecution  or  for  the  defence  is  fatal  to  the  exposi- 
tory purpose  of  history. 

Characterization,  too,  like  setting,  emphasizes  the  v 
restrictions  of  historical  narrative  as  opposed  to  the 
greater  liberty  of  fiction.  Scott  creates  a  personality 
that  shall  render  his  story  most  effective.  If  his  Richard 
is  in  harmony  with  the  Richard  of  the  Crusades,  so  much 
the  better;  the  chronicles  of  history  serve  as  useful 
auxiliaries.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  he  is  totally  untrue 
to  all  record,  so  much  the  worse  for  history;  the  story  is 
more  effective  than  if  the  King  of  the  Lion-Heart  had 
been  portrayed  consistently  with  the  accounts  to  be 
found  in  the  chronicles  of  Benedict  of  Peterborough. 
Similarly,  the  conception  of  Harold  the  Saxon  derivable 


248    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

from  the  ancient  records  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  Chronicle 
may  be  disappointingly  at  variance  with  that  which  we 
draw  from  Bulwer's  Harold,  the  Last  of  the  Saxon  Kings  ; 
but  the  veritable  son  of  Godwin  was  not  artistically 
adapted  to  the  events  that  constitute  the  plot  of  Bul- 
wer's  romance.  The  chronicler  and  the  writer  of  ro- 
mance has  each  his  own  field  and  his  own  ultimate 
purpose  in  characterization.  Clearness  and  truth  are 
the  goal  of  the  one;  clearness  and  effectiveness  the  goal 
of  the  other. 

Finally  as  to  action :  here,  in  one  respect,  at  least,  the 
historian  must  even  more  definitely  part  company  with 
any  possible  personal  idiosyncrasies  and  bias.  His 
events  are  already  matters  of  record.  Imagination  is 
fettered  by  fact.  But,  even  though  thus  restricted, 
originality  is  not  precluded.  In  the  most  extensive  his- 
tory the  quality  of  selection  must  be  exercised.  No  his- 
torian ever  utilized  all  the  material  at  hand.  One's  atti- 
tude to  life,  one's  economic  and  political  convictions,  will 
determine  the  selection  and  the  ordering  of  the  details 
chosen  for  record.  But  here  again  enters  the  peril  of 
personal  bias.  The  law  courts  supply  daily  evidence  of 
how  the  same  circumstances  seen  by  two  persons  are 
capable  of  totally  different  presentation.  The  question 
of  proportion  alone  is  fundamental  in  its  relation  to  the 
ultimate  interpretation  that  shall  be  placed,  let  us  say, 
upon  the  details  of  a  campaign  or  the  development  of  a 
social  institution.  Witness  the  variations  that  appear  in 
school  histories  as  to  the  events  of  the  Civil  War  of  1861- 
65,  or  in  religious  histories  as  to  the  relations  between 
the  Anglican  Church  of  to-day  and  that  of  the  English 
Reformation  under  Henry  VIII.  Originality,  too,  will 
appear  in  the  sources  from  which  one  chooses  his  ma- 
terial. A  history  of  American  politics  compiled  from 


FORMS  OF  NARRATIVE  LITERATURE      249 

contemporary  newspapers  and  periodicals  will  differ 
materially  in  substance  and  spirit  from  another  based 
on  standard  histories,  biographies,  and  state  papers. 
Certainly  some  of  the  originality  that  distinguishes  Von 
Hoist's  account  of  American  History  of  the  years  1850- 
60  may  be  attributed  to  his  painstaking  study  of  the 
newspapers  of  that  period.  And  his  originality  of  pro- 
cedure is  further  shown  in  his  odd  method  of  mastering 
the  English  language  through  the  medium  of  newspaper 
advertisements.  Indeed,  we  might  have  included  origin- 
ality as  one  of  the  qualities  that,  in  one  form  or  another, 
are  essential  to  all  narrative  deserving  the  name  of  his- 
tory. 

Another  fact  that  may  be  noted  in  connection  with 
action  as  an  element  in  historical  narrative  is  that  the 
very  nature  of  the  material  puts  a  practical  check  upon 
plot  complication.  The  purpose  of  dramatic  or  of  story 
plot  (p.  203)  is  to  secure  suspense  and  emphasis  through 
an  unexpected  denouement.  This  is  not  the  aim  of  his- 
torical narrative.  The  reader  is  in  all  probability  per- 
fectly familiar  with  the  ultimate  culmination;  his  inter- 
est lies  in  tracing  the  individual  details  or  the  trend  of 
related  events  that  lead  up  to  the  culmination.  Conse- 
quently any  complication  of  plot  strands,  any  carefully 
laid  plan  of  mystification,  such  as  is  familiar  in  the 
short-story  or  the  novel,  would  serve  but  to  hamper  the 
main  purpose  of  the  history.  The  principle  of  culmina- 
tion appears  in  the  historian's  endeavor  to  show  the 
inevitable  train  of  causation  leading  to  the  conclusion 
foreseen  from  the  beginning.  The  sudden  occurrence  of 
the  unexpected  that  gives  to  Marjorie  Daw  its  character- 
istic note  would  hardly  do  in  an  historical  account  of  the 
battle  of  Marathon.  The  reader  would  certainly  have 
reason  for  criticism  should  the  historian  so  juggle  his 


250    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

facts  as  to  lead  up  to  the  apparently  inevitable  conclu- 
sion that  the  troops  of  Datis  were  gaining  a  glorious 
victory,  and  should  then  close  with  some  such  unex- 
pected culmination  as  this :  — 

But  as  the  sun  sank  low  in  the  west,  the  Asiatic  invaders, 
disheartened  and  unnerved  at  the  losses  inflicted  by  the  forces 
of  Miltiades,  launched  their  galleys  in  headlong  flight,  while 
the  Greeks,  though  fatigued  by  the  day's  struggle,  were  al- 
ready preparing  for  a  night's  march  across  the  hills  of  Attica 
to  forestall  a  possible  attack  upon  the  city. 

From  these  various  considerations  it  is  clear  that  in 
the  very  constituents  of  narration,  —  setting,  charac- 
terization, and  plot,  —  the  purely  scientific  aspect  of 
history  is  not  sufficient.  The  personal  side,  apparent 
in  originality  of  method,  in  intelligent  ordering  of  ma- 
terial, and  in  selection  of  contributive  detail  is  con- 
stantly in  evidence.  And  this  fact,  in  conjunction  with 
the  subjective  quality  that  we  call  style,  combines  to 
lift  history  from  the  dead  level  of  mere  informatory 
exposition  and  give  to  it  the  dignity  of  literature. 

Biography 

Biographical  narrative,  including  the  autobiography 
and  the  memoir,  is  a  variety  of  history  modified  by  con- 
ditions peculiar  to  itself.  The  fundamental  requisites  of 
historical  narrative  still  remain:  the  biographer  must, 
like  the  historian,  exercise  industry  in  the  effort  to  col- 
late all  possible  material,  so  that  his  work  shall  not 
be  untrue  because  of  inadequate  information;  he  must 
also  possess  the  clearness  of  observation  and  the  judi- 
cial acuteness  that  characterize  the  historian,  otherwise 
his  record  will  have  little  value  to  the  seeker  after  truth; 
and,  finally,  if  the  biography  is  to  take  rank  as  literature, 


FORMS  OF  NARRATIVE  LITERATURE      251 

it  must  be  composed  with  due  regard  for  "  proper  words 
in  proper  places,"    —  that  is,  for  style. 

The  biographer  is  the  microscopist  among  historians ; 
he  presents  the  minute  details  that  in  the  wider  narra- 
tive would  be  in  violation  of  due  proportion.  He  works 
in  a  much  narrower  circle.  Instead  of  picturing  the  life- 
history  of  a  nation  or  even  an  epoch  in  a  nation's  career, 
he  elaborates  the  miniature  of  a  single  personality  that 
may  have  played  an  important  part  in  the  national  life 
or  in  the  epoch.  Instead  of  a  History  of  the  English 
Reformation  or  of  The  Oxford  Movement,  he  writes 
a  Life  of  Oliver  Cromwell  or  of  John  Henry  Newman. 

All  that  has  been  said,  therefore,  in  relation  to  his- 
torical narrative  may,  mutatis  mutandis,  be  applied  to 
biographical  literature.  Regarding  one  phase  of  this 
type  of  writing,  the  autobiography,  however,  some  addi- 
tional comment  should  be  made,  for  although  like  all  bio- 
graphy, it  is  but  a  microscopic  cross-section  of  history, 
yet  it  possesses  certain  well-marked  characteristics  of 
its  own. 

In  one  sense  of  the  word  biography  may  be  considered 
as  essentially  objective  in  character.  Of  course,  if  it  be 
literature  at  all,  it  must  be  subjective  to  the  extent  of 
reflecting  in  some  degree  the  author's  personality,  as  has 
already  been  noted  in  connection  with  style;  but  bio- 
graphy may  be  called  objective  to  this  extent,  —  that 
its  principal  value  lies  in  the  light  reflected  upon  the 
career  and  personality  of  him  about  whom  it  is  written 
and  not  upon  that  of  him  who  writes  it.  The  ultimate 
purpose  of  Lockhart's  Life  of  Scott,  for  example,  is  to 
throw  light  upon  the  life  and  character  of  the  great  nov- 
elist. It  may  reflect  much  of  the  biographer's  individu- 
ality as  well,  but  that  is,  to  the  average  reader,  only  a 
by-product,  and  is  of  material  value  only  to  the  student 


252    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

who  may  be  seeking  details  regarding  Lockhart  himself 
or  his  personal  style  of  expression.  With  the  autobio- 
graphy, however,  it  is  radically  different.  Attention 
is  now  focused  upon  the  writer  and  upon  the  characteris- 
tics of  his  individuality,  rather  than  upon  the  externals 
of  his  life-story.  We  are  interested  in  the  writer's  por- 
trait of  himself;  that  is,  in  him  not  as  seen  through 
the  eyes  of  the  world  but  as  reflected  from  within. 

In  her  extensive  work  The  Autobiography,  Mrs.  Anna 
Robeson  Burr  finds  her  definition  of  this  phase  of  narra- 
tive writing  in  the  preface  of  Marie  Bashkirtsev's  Jour- 
nal d'une  Jeune  Artiste  in  the  following  passage :  — 

If  I  should  not  live  long  enough  to  become  famous,  this 
journal  will  be  interesting  to  psychologists.  The  record  of  a 
woman's  life,  written  down  day  by  day,  without  any  attempt 
at  concealment,  as  if  no  one  in  the  world  were  to  read  it,  yet 
with  the  purpose  of  being  read,  is  always  interesting.  If  this 
book  is  not  the  exact,  the  absolute,  the  strict  truth,  it  has  no 
raison  d'etre. 

In  this  passage,  Mrs.  Burr  tells  us,  two  elements  are  at 
once  evident,  —  both  of  which  we  have  already  found 
to  be  essential  to  historical  writing:  (a)  the  attempt 
at  impartial  chronicling  of  fact,  and  (6)  the  endeavor  so 
to  phrase  the  thought  that  it  shall  be  read,  that  is,  shall 
secure  something  of  the  permanence  that  belongs  to 
literature.  Absolute  ingenuousness,  then,  being  a  prere- 
quisite to  effective  autobiography,  it  is  evident  that  the 
impulse  with  which  the  composition  takes  rise  will  have 
no  little  weight  in  determining  its  value.  And  the  auto- 
biographical motives  are  numerous.  Mrs.  Burr,  for  ex- 
ample, has  distinguished  no  less  than  thirteen,  such  as 
financial  return,  the  uses  of  posterity,  religious  witness, 
the  mere  pleasure  of  recalling  the  past,  interest  in  self- 


FORMS  OF  NARRATIVE  LITERATURE      253 

study,  the  interests  of  science.  It  is  not  difficult  to  see 
that,  with  these  impulses,  there  will  be  a  difference  in 
the  resulting  truthfulness  of  the  self-portrayal,  and 
consequently  in  the  biographical  value  of  the  work. 
The  writer  who,  like  the  traveler,  being  desirous  merely 
of  acquainting  his  reader  with  strange  conditions  of  men 
and  manners,  casts  his  narrative  in  autobiographical 
form,  will,  almost  of  necessity,  sacrifice  the  first  of  the 
principles  that  Mrs.  Burr  has  declared  essential  to  the 
type,  and  will  devote  greater  attention  to  the  second. 
The  value  of  the  autobiographic  narrative  will  thus 
depend  largely  on  objective  considerations  rather  than 
on  subjective,  as  it  should  to  secure  the  greatest  value. 
It  is  clear,  too,  in  view  of  the  ultimate  purpose  of  the 
autobiography,  why  abridgments  by  other  hands  than 
those  of  the  autobiographer  possess  little  ultimate  value. 
What  the  editor  shall  omit,  what  he  shall  retain,  must 
depend  upon  his  taste,  upon  his  judgment  of  the  person- 
ality incorporated  in  the  self -revelation.  And  the  edit- 
or's judgment  is  the  very  thing  that,  autobiograph- 
ically,  the  reader  cares  nothing  about.  It  introduces  an 
element  wholly  alien  to  the  very  nature  of  the  autobio- 
graphic type. 

In  common  with  history,  all  biographical  writing  is 
free  to  make  use  of  all  the  adjuncts  of  narration.  The 
environment  amidst  which  a  character  grows  to  matur- 
ity, the  complexities  that  combine  to  make  up  the  unity 
that  distinguish  the  individual,  the  various  episodes 
,  that,  in  coherent  train,  culminate  with  the  close  of  a 
career,  —  all  these  are  ready  to  the  hand  of  the  bio- 
grapher, whether  he  chronicle  the  life-story  of  another 
or  whether,  seeing  with  "the  inward  eye,"  he  record 
the  thoughts  that  are  known  only  to  himself.  One  dif- 
ference in  proportion,  however,  we  may  note  before  dis- 


254    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

missing  the  subject:  in  history  the  elements  of  setting 
and  character  are  but  accessory,  and  therefore  subordi- 
nate to  the  series  of  actual  events.  In  other  words, 
"the  story  is  the  thing."  But  with  biographical  narra- 
tive, and  particularly  with  autobiography,  the  element 
of  characterization  moves  up  into  first  place.  Back- 
ground and  action  are  but  contributory.  The  Man 
himself  becomes  supreme. 

H.  THE  NARRATIVE  OF  IMAGINATION 
The  Novel 

The  term  novel  is  as  familiar  as  the  term  literature  or 
style  or  criticism,  and  is  often  used  with  about  the  same 
degree  of  exactness  in  denotation.  Attempts  at  defin- 
ition have  frequently  been  made  by  writers  on  the  art  of 
fiction  as  well  as  by  novelists  themselves,  and  it  is  in- 
teresting to  note  how  the  various  results  throw  stress 
upon  widely  differing  elements.  One  writer  will  empha- 
size amusement  and  mental  relaxation  as  fundamental; 
another  will  specify  the  passion  of  love  as  the  essential 
motive ;  a  third  will  insist  upon  the  realistic  reproduc- 
tion of  actual  life;  a  fourth,  that  the  narrative  be  mor- 
ally instructive;  and  still  a  fifth,  that  there  be  a  con- 
scientious and  accurate  portrayal  of  character.1  An 
interesting  phenomenon  attendant  upon  these  various 
attempts  to  define  the  term  novel  is  that,  as  they  become 
more  and  more  modern,  the  element  of  character  por- 
trayal becomes  increasingly  important.  This  is  quite  in 
keeping  with  the  trend  from  objective  to  subjective 
characterization  already  referred  to  in  chapter  v.  In 
general,  however,  the  definitions  of  one  generation  differ 

1  For  a  full  discussion  of  this  matter  see  Home's  Technique  of 
the  Novel,  chap.  n. 


FORMS  OF  NARRATIVE  LITERATURE       255 

so  widely  from  those  of  another  that  what  an  eighteenth- 
century  writer  would  unhesitatingly  term  a  "novel" 
would,  in  our  time,  seem  to  demand  quite  different 
classification. 

This  changing  point  of  view  as  to  the  exact  nature  of 
the  novel  is  further  shown  by  a  marked  difference  of 
opinion  as  to  what  shall  be  honored  as  the  first  novel. 
The  rank  of  priority  has  been  awarded  to  The  Amadis  of 
Gaul  (1470  ?),  to  Madame  Lafayette's  Princess  of  Cleves 
(1678),  to  Marivaux's  Marianne  (about  1731),  to  Defoe's 
Robinson  Crusoe  (1719),  and  to  Richardson's  Pamela 
(1740).  Here,  of  course,  the  variation  in  judgment  re- 
sults from  lack  of  unanimity  among  critics  as  to  the  basic 
essentials  of  the  novel-type.  Professor  Home,  in  his 
Technique  of 'the  Novel,  has  thus  summed  up  these  vari- 
ous essentials :  — 

A  novel,  then,  consists  of  the  gathering  of  a  single  series  of 
human,  that  is  to  say,  emotional  events  from  out  the  vast 
whirl  of  loosely  related  incidents  which  we  call  "the  world." 
It  endeavors  to  trace  a  series  of  causes  to  their  series  of  effects. 
Rejecting  all  the  intervening  masses  of  irrelevant  matter  which 
make  the  lessons  of  life  so  hard  to  read,  the  novel  points,  or 
should  point  as  clearly  as  it  can,  the  winding  of  the  road  down 
which  some  soul  has  traveled,  the  goal  which,  if  another  mortal 
follow  the  same  route,  he  also  is  most  likely  to  reach.  "Quo 
Vadis"  should  be  the  title  not  of  one  story,  but  of  all.1 

In  that  it  seeks  to  "  trace  a  series  of  causes  to  their  ser- 
ies to  effects  "  the  novel  must  possess  plot.  In  that  this 
series  shall  be  one  of  "  human"  and  "emotional"  events, 
the  novel  must  include  characterization.  And  in  that  it 
shall  "point  as  clearly  as  it  can  the  winding  of  the  road 
down  which  some  soul  has  traveled,"  the  novel  may  util- 

1  Home's  Technique  of  the  Novel.  By  permission  of  Harper  and 
Brothers.  Copyright,  1908,  by  Harper  and  Brothers. 


256    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

ize  setting  and  descriptive  detail.  Furthermore  style  — 
the  personal  element  in  composition  —  will  certainly 
play  an  important  role,  if  the  novel  is  to  portray  with 
effectiveness  the  course  of  individual  growth  or  decay. 

Finally,  it  will  be  noted  that  the  definition  of  the  novel 
may  be  extended  so  as  to  include  the  extremes  of  realistic 
narrative  on  the  one  hand  and  of  imaginative  license  on 
the  other.  The  sequence  of  human  events  chronicled  may 
take  place  in  the  Black  Forest  or  in  the  Forest  of  Arden; 
on  Long  Island  or  on  some  fabled  Atlantis.  And  the 
events  themselves  may  range  from  the  photographic  de- 
tails of  the  Chicago  stock-yards  to  the  romantic  adven- 
tures of  Argalus  and  Parthenia  in  the  shadowy  groves  of 
Arcadia.  The  "human  and  emotional"  events  are  not  at 
variance  with  truth  because,  perchance,  they  are  not  a 
record  of  actual  facts.1  Hence  we  have  the  realism  of 
Zola  and  the  imagination  of  Hawthorne.  In  other  words, 
a  definition  of  the  novel  must  be  broad  enough  to  include 
what  is  generally  known  as  the  romance,  and  the  at- 
tempt to  differentiate  these  two  terms  is  one  reason 
for  the  disparity  that  we  have  already  noted  among  the 
conflicting  definitions  of  the  literary  type  under  dis- 
cussion. 

From  what  has  been  presented  thus  briefly,  it  is  clear 
that  the  novel  offers  the  broadest  possible  field  for  the 
genius  of  the  narrative  writer.  On  no  side  is  he  limited  so 
strictly  as  is  the  historiographer  or  the  biographer.  If 
his  attitude  to  life  be  that  of  the  fatalist,  he  will  draw  his 
narrative  to  that  dark  pattern,  and  "Time,  the  arch- 
satirist,  will  have  his  joke  out"  to  the  end.  If,  again,  he 
sees  the  world  through  a  brighter,  more  cheerful  glass,  he 
will  conduct  his  hero  through  many  adventures,  at  the 

1  For  further  discussion  of  "truth"  and  "fact,"  see  Winchester's 
Principles  of  Literary  Criticism,  pp.  148-52. 


FORMS  OF  NARRATIVE  LITERATURE      257 

hands,  it  may  be,  of  Fagins  and  Quilps,  but  at  the  end 
will  leave  him  amid  prosperity  and  success.  Or,  again, 
the  novelist  may  be  artistically  alive  to  the  colors  and  the 
voices  of  nature; 

The  tall  rock 

The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 
Their  colors  and  their  forms, 

may  have  peculiar  charm;  then,  in  some  Choir  Invisible 
or  Lorna  Doone,  he  will  picture  setting  with  an  elabora- 
tion of  detail  that  considerations  of  proportion  would 
render  quite  impossible  to  the  historian.  Or,  perhaps, 
motives  rather  than  action  may  make  the  strongest  ap- 
peal; in  that  case,  like  George  Eliot  or  George  Meredith, 
he  will  give  himself  to  characterization  as  far  as  is  con- 
sistent with  interest.  In  other  words,  the  novel  offers 
a  field  in  which  the  genius  of  the  narrator  may  range 
practically  without  limit. 

No  consideration  of  the  literature  of  fiction  would  be 
complete  without  reference  to  its  two  important  aspects, 
the  realistic  and  the  romantic.  The  terms  realism  and 
romance  are  often  used  as  if  there  were  a  fundamental  dif- 
ference between  the  subject-matter  of  the  one  and  of  the 
other:  as  if,  that  is  to  say,  Thackeray  chose  one  class  of 
material  and  Scott  another  quite  unlike  it.  Yet  if  one 
will  place  Henry  Esmond  side  by  side  with  Waverley,  one 
will  discover  no  fundamental  difference  between  the  ma- 
terials used.  In  fact,  the  romantic  novelist  and  even  the 
historian  or  the  biographer  frequently  utilize  the  same 
subject-matter.  The  reader  of  Kenilworth,  for  example, 
or  of  Westward  Ho!  will  recognize  the  same  faces  and 
many  of  the  very  events  that  he  finds  on  the  pages  of  all 
chronicles  of  Elizabethan  England  or  in  the  biographies 
of  English  worthies  famous  in  the  sixteenth  century.  The 
difference  is  not  in  the  material;  it  is  in  the  very  nature 


258    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

of  the  writer  and  in  his  manner  of  approaching  his  sub- 
ject. The  realist  and  the  romancist  alike  are  concerned 
with  the  world  of  actuality,  but  one  is  inspired  by  what 
it  is;  the  other,  by  what  it  suggests.  We  might  say  that 
the  realist  is  moved  by  the  denotative  possibilities  of  his 
world;  the  romancist,  by  the  connotative.  Both  realism 
and  romance  are  ultimately  based  upon  truth,  upon  con- 
formity to  what  the  writer  believes  to  be  the  fixed  laws  of 
life.  Silas  Marner  rests  on  what  was  to  George  Eliot  an 
ultimate  truth  —  that  the  individual  soul  attains  its  full- 
est growth  only  through  a  process  of  self-abnegation  and 
love  for  others.  And  underlying  Ivanhoe  and  The  Talis- 
man is  Scott's  inborn  enthusiasm  for  chivalry,  for  the 
conventions  typified  by  belt  and  spur,  spear  and  lance, 
by  the  loyalty  that  made  Toryism  as  essential  a  part 
of  his  personality  as  democracy  was  a  part  of  Lafayette's 
or  of  Jefferson's.  Scott's  loyalty  to  tradition  is  ultimately 
and  fundamentally  based  on  a  truth. 

But  the  facts  which  the  novelist  selects  for  setting 
forth  his  truth  are  a  wholly  different  matter.  They  bear 
to  it  much  the  same  relation  that  the  premises  of  an  ar- 
gument bear  to  the  conclusion,  the  material  to  the  fin- 
ished product,  the  part  to  the  whole.  The  facts  of  Silas 
Marner  are  the  various  individual  occurrences  that  in 
their  entirety  set  forth  the  altruistic  formula  underlying 
the  novel.  The  facts  of  Ivanhoe  are  the  various  narra- 
tive details  that  in  their  entirety  establish  the  ultimate 
truth  of  Scott's  creed.  And  it  is  by  his  attitude  to  his 
facts  that  we  determine  whether  a  writer  inclines  toward 
realism  or  toward  romance. 

The  realist  assumes  to  his  facts  something  of  the  atti- 
tude of  the  scientist.  To  him  they  are  the  data  upon 
which  the  final  judgment  as  to  his  ground  truth  is  to  be 
based.  With  them  he  must  take.no  liberties.  Actuality, 


FORMS  OF  NARRATIVE  LITERATURE      259 

photographic  exactness,  truth  to  the  phenomena  of  ex- 
perience are  axiomatic  principles  not  to  be  trifled  with. 
Of  each  the  reader  must  be  able  to  say  "  How  real ! "  The 
course  of  Colonel  Newcome's  life,  the  characterization  of 
Godfrey  Cass,  Norris's  picture  of  the  Wheat  Pit,  —  all  are 
illustrations  of  the  novelist's  ability  to  catch  with  exact- 
ness the  trend  of  circumstance,  the  shadow  of  personal- 
ity, the  details  of  background.  They  proceed  from  the 
same  loyalty  to  the  actual  that  characterizes  the  scien- 
tist in  his  laboratory.  Of  course,  the  individual  incidents 
with  which  the  realist  works  are  the  offspring  of  his  im- 
agination; otherwise  his  work  would  be  history  or  bio- 
graphy. Yet  his  imagination  does  not  run  uncurbed.  The 
rational  basis  of  scientific  generalization  constantly  ex- 
ercises restraint  upon  him.  Experience,  consciously  or 
unconsciously,  stands  by  his  side  as  mentor.  In  this  re- 
spect, then,  that  his  attitude  is  largely  one  of  careful  at- 
tention to  accuracy  of  detail,  which  step  by  step,  here  a 
little  and  there  a  little,  ultimately  establishes  the  basic 
truth,  the  realist  pursues  a  method  analogous  to  that  of 
the  inductive  reasoner. 

In  view  of  this  attitude  of  mind,  we  find  that  the  real- 
ist is  impatient  with  mere  conventionalism,  because  it  is 
too  vague,  too  general,  because  it  lacks  individuality. 
To  him  much  of  the  literature  of  the  eighteenth  century 
makes  slight  appeal;  it  is  as  artificial  as  the  turrets  and 
battlements  of  Strawberry  Hill  or  of  Abbotsford.  He  is 
impatient,  too,  with  sentimentalism  and  mere  imagina- 
tiveness, because  they  do  not  rest  upon  the  more  sub- 
stantial foundations  of  intellectual  experience.  To  him, 
as  to  materialists  of  the  Macaulay  type,  "fifty  years  of 
Europe  is  better  than  a  cycle  of  Cathay."  Furthermore, 
he  does  not  sympathize  with  the  idealist  who  omits  de- 
fects and  pictures  conditions  that  are  unnaturally  perfect 


260    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

and  intellectually  impossible.  Little  Nell  and  Paul  Dom- 
bey  are  not  delightful,  and  the  London  pickpockets  of  the 
Artful  Dodger  school  are  as  unreal  as  the  winged  creatures 
that  characterize  armorial  bearings.  The  realist  will  por- 
tray men  and  life  as  he  finds  them;  pleasantness  and  un- 
pleasantness are  but  accidents,  to  be  regarded  merely 
as  so  much  material.  The  novel  is  too  serious  a  form  of 
literature  to  be  hampered  by  the  considerations  of  "vir- 
ginibus  puerisque."  In  his  sincerity  the  realist  portrays 
a  Jude  Fawley  or  an  Arabella  Donn,  and  when  an  indig- 
nant public  protests  against  his  frankness  he  lays  aside  his 
pen  and  refuses  to  write  further  rather  than  sacrifice 
his  loyalty  to  things  as  they  are. 

Very  different  is  the  attitude  of  the  writer  of  romance. 
His  work,  too,  springs  from  the  seed  of  truth,  as  has  al- 
ready been  said,  but  he  is  concerned  principally  with  the 
matter  of  effective  presentation.  In  a  very  large  and  gen- 
eral way,  his  rhetorical  guide  is  emphasis;  of  the  real- 
ist it  is  clearness.  He  may  perhaps  feel  that  to  restrict 
/  himself  to  the  mere  commonplaces  of  prosaic  experience 
would  be  to  lose  power,  and  he  does  not  hesitate  to  draw 
men  and  motives  to  a  scale  unknown  in  everyday  life. 
If,  for  the  effective  presentation  of  his  story,  he  must 
take  liberties  with  time  and  place,  he  is  not  unwilling 
to  lay  violent  hands  upon  history  and  geography.  Ken- 
ilworth  is  no  less  effective  because  it  portrays  Shakspere 
as  the  great  poet  at  a  time  when,  as  a  matter  of  recorded 
chronicle,  he  was  robbing  orchards  about  Stratford,  nor 
The  Antiquary  because,  to  fit  the  exigencies  of  setting, 
the  author  makes  the  sun  sink  behind  the  eastern  hills 
of  Scotland.  Indeed,  if  to  the  setting  forth  of  his  truth 
the  known  world  does  not  adapt  itself,  the  romancist 
is  always  at  liberty  to  discover  a  world  of  his  own,  as 
does  Bulwer  in  The  Coming  Race.  In  short,  the  rornan- 


FORMS  OF  NARRATIVE  LITERATURE      261 

cist  is  not  subject  to  the  shackling  limitations  of  prosaic 
fact.  He  rises  far  above  the  rational  method  of  his  fellow- 
craftsman,  the  realist.  He  exemplifies  the  freedom  of  the 
unrestricted  imagination. 

As  methods  of  thought  and  feeling  change,  now  real- 
ism and  now  romance  will  seem  to  voice  most  effectively 
the  spirit  of  the  time.  But,  realist  and  romancist  will  al- 
ways exist  as  long  as  some  men  are  moved  mainly  by  the 
intellectual  aspects  of  truth  and  others  by  impatience  at 
imaginative  restraint.  We  shall  always  find  the  fidelity 
to  fact  characteristic  of  Thackeray  and  Trollope,  and 
also  the  romantic  imagery  of  Hawthorne  and  Stevenson. 

The  Short-story 

Of  the  various  forms  of  narrative  composition  no  one 
type  has  been  the  subject  of  more  extended  critical  dis- 
cussion than  has  the  short-story.  The  term  is  unfortu- 
nate because  it  encourages  confusion  between  the  short- 
story  and  the  story  that  is  merely  short,  and  these 
two  forms  are  by  no  means  identical.  We  have  adopted 
the  hyphenated  form  suggested  by  Professor  Brander 
Matthews,  as  presenting  a  distinction  between  the 
two  types. 

The  short  story  is  no  new  form  of  narration,  distinctive 
of  the  nineteenth  century.  From  the  earliest  times  we 
find  it.  In  the  camp,  at  the  city  gate,  in  the  king's  court, 
in  the  robbers'  cave,  men  have  always  listened  to  the  re- 
cital of  adventure  or  to  the  tale  of  love.  Egyptian  Tales,  a 
collection  edited  by  W.  M.  Flinders  Petrie,  contains  short 
stories  that  have  been  preserved  on  papyrus  for  thou- 
sands of  years.  The  Bible  is  a  repository  of  short  tales, 
like  Ruth  and  Esther  and  others  familiar  to  every  reader. 
The  Thousand-and-one-Nights  is  universally  known. 


262    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

But  the  short-story  is  all  that  they  are  and  something 
more;  and  it  is  the  short-story  that  in  recent  years  has 
risen  to  a  position  of  great  importance  in  the  literature 
of  fiction.  Perhaps  one  reason  for  the  increased  popular- 
ity of  this  brief  narrative  form  is  to  be  found  in  the  pres- 
ent-day impatience  that  demands  time-saving  devices  in 
every  field  of  activity :  in  the  work-shop,  in  the  counting- 
room,  in  the  house  of  God.  There  was  a  time  when  our 
ancestors  were  content  to  follow  through  a  half  dozen  or 
more  volumes  the  fortunes  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison  or  of 
Clarissa  Harlowe;  nowadays  the  length  of  De  Morgan's 
single- volume  novels  provides  ready  material  for  ad- 
verse criticism.  But  beyond  the  perennial  interest  in  a 
narrative  that  does  not  demand  extended  attention  on 
the  part  of  the  reader,  and  beyond  the  modern  utilita- 
rian demand  for  economy  of  time,  lies  this  critical  fact, 
—  that  the  short-story  has  developed  possibilities  as  an 
art  form  until  it  is  entitled  to  a  place  quite  its  own 
in  narrative  literature. 

Under  the  title  of  the  tale  we  may  include  those  speci- 
mens of  narrative  fiction  less  extended  than  the  novel 
with  all  its  detail  of  background,  characterization,  and 
plot.  But  aside  from  its  length,  the  tale  possesses  no  char- 
acteristics peculiar  to  itself.  It  is  conventional  narrative; 
its  nature  is  stated  in  the  definitions  to  be  found  on  the 
first  page  of  this  book;  its  purpose  may  be  didactic,  as  in 
the  case  of  parables  and  allegories,  or  it  may  be  written 
merely  to  afford  relaxation;  it  may  be  the  elaboration 
of  a  single  episode,  or  it  may  contain  many  episodes;  it 
,  may  stand  apart,  as  in  the  case  of  Ruth  or  Esther,  or  it 
i  may  be  framed  within  a  larger  narrative  environment, 
as  in  the  case  of  Wandering  Willie's  Tale  in  Scott's  Red- 
gauntlet  or  The  Story  of  the  Man  of  the  Hill  in  Fielding's 
Tom  Jones.  But  the  short-story,  as  it  has  been  developed 


FORMS  OF  NARRATIVE   LITERATURE      263 

in  the  recent  literature  of  fiction,  possesses  marked  char- 
acteristics that  differentiate  it  from  this  broader  type. 

We  need  not  attempt  to  trace  from  Oriental,  classic, 
and  mediaeval  sources  the  literary  genealogy  and  history 
of  the  short-story;  such  investigation  lies  outside  the 
scope  of  our  work.  We  may  accept  the  type  as  we  find 
it  to-day,  and  proceed  at  once  to  examine  its  structure. 

A  convenient  starting-point  presents  itself  in  the  words 
of  one  of  the  masters  of  short-story  composition.  In  a 
review  of  Hawthorne's  Tales,  Edgar  Allan  Poe  wrote:  — 

A  skillful  literary  artist  has  constructed  a  tale.  If  wise,  he  has 
not  fashioned  His  thoughts  to  accommodate  his  incidents;  but 
having  conceived  with  deliberate  care  a  certain  unique  or 
single  effect  to  be  wrought  out,  he  then  invents  such  incidents 
—  he  then  combines  such  events  as  may  best  aid  him  in  es- 
tablishing this  preconceived  effect.  If  his  very  initial  sentence 
tend  not  to  the  outbringing  of  this  effect,  then  he  has  failed  in 
his  first  step-  In  the  whole  composition  there  should  be  no 
word  written,  of  which  the  tendency,  direct  or  indirect,  is 
not  to  the  one  preestablished  design.  And  by  such  means, 
with  such  care  and  skill,  a  picture  is  at  length  painted  which 
leaves  in  the  mind  of  him  who  contemplates  it  with  a  kindred 
art,  a  sense  of  the  fullest  satisfaction.  The  idea  of  the  tale  has 
been  presented  unblemished,  because  undisturbed;  and  this  is 
an  end  unattainable  by  the  novel,  Undue  brevity  is  just  as 
exceptionable  here  as  in  the  poem;  but  undue  length  is  yet 
more  to  be  avoided. 

Here  we  would  seem  to  have  two  distinct  processes  of 
narrative  composition :  one  illustrated  by  the  story-teller 
whose  principal  concern  is  to  marshal  his  narrative  in- 
cidents; and  the  other  by  the  writer  whose  aim  is,  by  his 
incidents  —  in  this  case  but  a  means  to  an  end  —  to  put 
into  objective  form  the  "certain  unique  or  single  effect'9 
which  he  has  conceived.  And  this  singleness  of  effect, 


264    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

this  uniqueness,  is  the  hall-mark  of  typical  short-stories. 
Take*  for  instance,  Maupassant's  Happiness.  The  germ 
of  this  simple  story,  more  easily  felt  than  expressed,  may 
perhaps  be  found  in  solution  in  the  apparently  trivial 
question  put  by  one  of  the  company  at  the  beginning  of 
the  narrative:  "Can  one  remain  in  love  for  several  years 
in  succession?"  It  is  as  if  with  this  core  thought  in  his 
mind,  Maupassant  had  combined  such  events  as  might 
best  aid  him  in  establishing  this  effect.  Or,  again,  take 
such  familiar  stories  as  A  New  England  Nun,  The  Out- 
casts of  Poker  Flat,  The  Ambitious  Guest,  The  Cask  of 
Amontillado,  or  The  Withered  Arm,  and  a  little  thought 
will  reveal  a  nucleus  idea  around  which  the  incidents 
of  the  story  gather  and  which  they  serve  to  set  forth 
in  tangible,  effective  form. 

This  same  fundamental  "uniqueness"  of  purpose  may 
be  seen  by  a  reversal  of  the  foregoing  method.  Instead 
of  proceeding  from  the  finished  composition,  we  may 
begin  at  the  opposite  extreme  of  the  process.  Let  us 
suppose,  for  example,  a  person  passing  a  jeweler's  show- 
windows  on  a  city  street.  As  he  pauses  to  look  at  the 
costly  array  set  forth  to  attract  the  passer-by,  he  notices 
that  two  women  are,  like  himself,  earnestly  regarding 
the  display.  The  one  by  her  attire  gives  every  evidence 
of  wealth;  the  other  is  garbed  in  the  sober  vestments  of  a 
religious  order.  Each  is  unconscious  of  observation;  each 
evidently  admires  the  glittering  ornaments,  the  gold,  the 
precious  stones.  Suddenly  the  first  turns  and  enters  the 
shop;  the  other,  suppressing  quickly  the  suspicion  of  a 
sigh,-  passes  on  her  way.  Here  is  abundant  material  for 
reflection.  The  observer's  thoughts  may  easily  centre 
upon  a  very  definite  and  individual  experience  in  life.  If 
he  is  possessed  of  the  imaginative  genius  of  Hawthorne 
or  of  Maupassant,  he  may  discover  here  the  gerni 


FORMS  OF  NARRATIVE  LITERATURE      2C5 

principle  of  an  effective  short-story,  for  which  he  may 
invent  such  incidents  as  will  best  set  forth  his  con- 
ception. 

Hawthorne's  note-book  abounds  in  just  such  hints  as 
this  for  subsequent  development  into  short-story  form. 
For  instance,  we  read :  — 

A  company  of  persons  to  drink  a  certain  medicinal  prepara- 
tion, which  would  prove  a  poison,  or  the  contrary,  according 
to  their  different  characters. 

To  poison  a  person  or  a  party  of  persons  with  the  sacra- 
mental wine. 

A  dreadful  secret  to  be  communicated  to  several  people  of 
various  characters,  —  grave  or  gay,  and  they  all  to  become 
insane,  according  to  their  characters,  by  the  influence  of  the 
secret. 

A  person  to  be  the  death  of  his  beloved  in  trying  to  raise  her 
to  more  than  mortal  perfection;  yet  this  should  be  a  comfort  to 
him  for  having  aimed  so  highly  and  holily. 

A  change  from  a  gay  young  girl  to  an  old  woman;  the  melan- 
choly events,  the  effects  of  which  have  clustered  around  her 
character,  and  gradually  imbued  it  with  their  influence,  till  she 
becomes  a  lover  of  sick-chambers,  taking  pleasure  in  receiving 
dying  breaths  and  in  laying  out  the  dead ;  also  having  her  mind 
full  of  funeral  reminiscences,  and  possessing  more  acquaint- 
ances beneath  the  burial  turf  than  above  it. 

This  power  to  catch  the  fleeting  shadow  of  some  great 
truth,  the  hint  of  some  dramatic  crisis,  or  the  flash  of 
some  momentary  emotion,  and  then  to  phrase  it  effect- 
ively in  narrative  setting  requires  artistic  sense  of  no 
little  delicacy.  Of  this  imaginative  gift,  Professor  Bliss 
Perry  in  A  Study  of  Prose  Fiction  has  written:  — 

It  [the  short-story]  calls  for  visual  imagination  of  a  high  or- 
der: the  power  to  see  the  object;  to  penetrate  to  its  essential 


266    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

nature;  to  select  the  one  characteristic  trait  by  which  it  may  be 
represented.  A  novelist  informs  you  that  his  heroine,  let  us  say, 
is  seated  in  a  chair  by  the  window.  He  tells  you  what  she  looks 
like :  her  attitude,  figure,  hair,  and  eyes,  and  so  forth.  He  can  do 
this,  and  very  often  seems  to  do  it,  without  really  seeing  that 
individual  woman  or  making  us  see  her.  His  trained  pencil 
merely  sketches  some  one  of  the  same  general  description,  of 
about  the  equivalent  hair  and  eyes,  and  so  forth,  seated  by  that 
general  kind  of  a  window.  If  he  does  not  succeed  in  making  her 
real  to  us  in  that  pose,  he  has  a  hundred  other  opportunities 
before  the  novel  ends.  ...  If  one  scene  does  not  present  her 
vividly  to  us,  the  chances  are  that  another  will,  and  in  the  end, 
it  is  true,  we  have  an  absolutely  distinct  image  of  her.  The  short- 
story  writer,  on  the  other  hand,  has  but  the  one  chance.  His 
task,  compared  with  that  of  the  novelist,  is  like  bringing  down 
a  flying  bird  with  one  bullet,  instead  of  banging  away  with  a 
whole  handful  of  birdshot  and  having  another  barrel  in  reserve. 
Study  the  descriptive  epithets  in  Stevenson's  short-stories. 
How  they  bring  down  the  object !  What  an  eye !  And  what  a 
hand !  No  adjective  that  does  not  paint  a  picture  or  record  a 
judgment!  And  if  it  were  not  for  a  boyish  habit  of  showing  off 
his  skill  and  doing  trick  shots  for  us  out  of  mere  superfluity  of 
cleverness,  what  judge  of  marksmanship  would  refuse  Master 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  the  prize? 

If,  now,  bearing  in  mind  this  power  of  penetrating  to 
the  very  soul  of  an  event  or  of  a  series  of  events,  one  will 
turn  to  a  typical  tale,  he  will  be  conscious  of  a  distinct 
difference  between  it  and  the  typical  short-story.  The 
story  of  Ruth  will  serve  for  illustration.  After  reading 
this,  does  one  not  carry  away  with  him  the  impression  of 
a  series  of  incidents  rather  than  of  a  germ -thought  from 
which  all  proceeds?  He  thinks  of  Naomi's  affliction,  of 
Ruth  gleaning  after  the  reapers  or  sleeping  at  the  feet  of 
Boaz,  of  the  gathering  of  the  elders  at  the  gate,  and  of  the 
birth  of  Obed.  The  tale  is  not  drawn  to  a  narrative  pat- 


FORMS  OF  NARRATIVE  LITERATURE      267 

tern  with  careful  elimination  of  every  detail  that  shall  not 
contribute  to  the  setting  forth  of  a  single  situation,  a  sin- 
gle emotion,  a  single  effect. 

Hawthorne  in  his  note-book  wrote :  — 

The  semblance  of  a  human  face  to  be  formed  on  the  side  of  a 
mountain,  or  in  the  fracture  of  a  small  stone,  by  a  lusus  naturae. 
The  face  is  an  object  of  curiosity  for  years  or  centuries,  and  by 
and  by  a  boy  is  born,  whose  features  gradually  assume  the  as- 
pect of  that  portrait.  At  some  critical  juncture,  the  resemblance 
is  found  to  be  perfect.  A  prophecy  may  be  connected. 

Later  he  composed  The  Great  Stone  Face.  To  this  story  in 
relation  to  its  germ,  as  set  forth  in  the  note-book  entry,  we 
may  easily  apply  Stevenson's  words  in  a  letter  to  a  friend: 

I  never  use  an  effect  when  I  can  help  it,  unless  it  prepares  the 
effects  that  are  to  follow;  that's  what  a  story  consists  in.  To 
make  another  end,  that  is  to  make  the  beginning  all  wrong.  The 
denouement  of  a  long  story  is  nothing,  it  is  just  "  a  full  close," 
which  you  may  approach  and  accomplish  as  you  please  —  it  is 
a  code,  not  an  essential  member  in  the  rhythm;  but  the  body 
and  end  of  a  short-story  is  bone  of  the  bone  and  blood  of  the 
blood  of  the  beginning. 

The  end  of  Hawthorne's  story  is  of  a  part  with  the  begin- 
ning; it  could  end  only  as  it  does  and  yet  fulfill  the 
author's  purpose.  But  it  would  be  impossible  to  make 
similar  application  of  Stevenson's  principle  to  the  story 
of  Ruth,  of  Joseph  and  his  brethren,  of  Aladdin  and 
his  magic  lamp,  of  Reynard  the  Fox. 

Mr.  Clayton  Hamilton  has  thus  formulated  a  defini- 
tion of  the  short-story :  — 

The  aim  of  a  short-story  is  to  produce  a  single  narrative  ef- 
fect with  the  greatest  economy  of  means  that  is  consistent  with 
the  utmost  emphasis.1 

1  Materials  and  Methods  of  Fiction.  By  permission  of  The  Baker 
and  Taylor  Co.,  New  York. 


268    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

And  to  the  composition  of  such  a  type  of  narrative  we 
may  apply  with  slight  change  the  words  of  Stevenson 
with  regard  to  the  general  art  of  fiction:  that  "from  all 
its  sentences  it  will  echo  and  reecho  its  own  controlling 
thought;  to  this  must  every  incident  and  character  con- 
tribute; the  style  must  be  pitched  in  unison  with  this; 
and  if  anywhere  there  is  a  word  that  looks  another  way, 
the  story  would  be  better  without  it." 

It  is  evident,  then,  that  the  principle  of  unity  is  pe- 
culiarly applicable  to  the  short-story  in  its  modern  form. 
Of  no  phase  of  fiction  is  it  so  true  that  every  word,  every 
detail  that  is  not  for  it  is  against  it.  Exigencies  of  space 
alone  preclude  anything  most  remotely  suggestive  of 
digression.  Consequently  the  writer  of  the  short-story 
works  under  peculiarly  restricted  conditions.  It  may  be 
that  some  impression  of  character  furnishes  inspiration 
for  the  narrative.  But  the  writer  has  no  opportunities 
for  developing  delicate  shadings,  the  play  of  various 
motives,  the  successive  stages  that  in  their  entirety  con- 
stitute a  personality.  The  realm  of  character  development 
is  not  for  him.  Compare,  for  example,  the  portrayal  of 
Markheim  with  that  of  Tito  in  Romola.  It  is  in  the  per- 
sonality of  Stevenson's  hero,  as  in  George  Eliot's,  that 
we  are  most  interested.  But  we  must  catch  the  one  at  a 
glance,  at  the  crisis  of  his  life;  we  secure  our  insight  into 
the  other  by  a  series  of  carefully  elaborated  situations 
and  expositions.  The  one  is  flashed  upon  us;  the  other  is 
wrought  out  only  with  most  painstaking  detail.  As  a 
study  in  characterization  the  short-story  is  restricted  to 
dramatic  moments  or  to  personalities  that  are  in  them- 
selves unique.  The  commonplace  man  of  the  street  does 
not  offer  promising  material  for  short-story  character- 
ization, although  we  must  not  forget  that  under  an  ap- 
parently commonplace  exterior  there  may  be  the  unique 


FORMS  OF  NARRATIVE  LITERATURE      269 

possibilities  of  a  Louisa  Ellis,  as  in  A  New  England  Nun, 
or  of  an  Ernest,  as  in  The  Great  Stone  Face. 

The  essential  unity  of  the  short-story  exercises  re- 
striction also  upon  the  writer  who  finds  his  theme  in 
some  aspect  of  setting,  in  some  note  pervading  nature 
and  general  environment.  For  wonderful  unity  of  tone, 
of  atmosphere,  such  stories  as  The  Fall  of  the  House  of 
Usher  or  The  Masque  of  the  Red  Death  are  cases  in  point. 
James  Lane  Allen  in  The  Choir  Invisible  or  Black- 
more  in  Lorna  Doone  have  given  marvelous  examples 
of  background  portrayal;  but  in  neither  case  was  the 
artist  under  the  compelling  obligation  that  constrained 
Poe  to  blend  every  color  and  to  harmonize  every  detail 
in  order  to  produce  a  single  impression,  a  single  emotion. 
It  is  not  for  the  writer  of  the  short-story  to  draw  Nature 
in  every  mood,  but  rather  to  catch  some  single  aspect. 
Like  Maupassant  in  Happiness  he  must  choose  only 
those  effects  that  accentuate  the  germinal  idea  from 
which  the  story  itself  emanates. 

So,  too,  in  reference  to  plot :  the  novelist  and,  in  less  de- 
gree, the  writer  of  the  tale  have  free  hand  with  incident 
and  episode  that  shall  ultimately  combine  in  the  general 
unity  of  effect  disclosed  in  the  culmination.  But  the 
short-story  can  seldom  embrace  more  than  a  single  main 
action,  and  that  must  be  capable  of  ready  interpreta- 
tion as  clearly  setting  forth  the  cardinal  idea.  The  story 
of  Colonel  Newcome's  life  and  the  meteoric  career  of 
Haman  possess  unity  indeed,  but  each  is  far  more  dif- 
ferentiated in  detail,  more  consecutive  and  less  concen- 
trated than  the  story  of  Mathilde  Loisel  or  of  John 
Oakhurst.  Merimee's  Taking  of  the  Redoubt  is  a  note- 
worthy instance  of  classic  simplicity  and  freedom  from 
all  details  that  do  not  directly  contribute  to  the  main 
narrative  end.  The  story  is  an  impressionistic  descrip- 


270    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

tion  of  the  emotions  of  men  brought  face  to  face  with 
death.  Not  only  does  Merimee  efface  himself  completely 
from  his  narrative,  but  he  so  compresses  his  plot  by  the 
elimination  of  every  non-contributive  detail  that  his 
story  moves  undeviatingly  on  to  its  goal. 

As  with  unity  of  structure,  so  with  coherence.  The 
short-story  exacts  a  conciseness  and  compactness  quite 
foreign  to  the  novel  and  even  to  the  tale.  The  delibera- 
tion that  characterizes  the  dramatic  structure  of  Richard 
Yea-and-Nay,  for  instance,  as  shown  in  the  analysis  pre- 
sented on  pp.  230-31,  or  of  Esther,  as  shown  on  pp.  205- 
17,  is  impossible  in  the  typical  short-story,  and,  al- 
though a  general  adjustment  to  the  methods  of  the  more 
extended  narrative  forms  may  often  be  discovered,  as  in 
the  case  of  The  Black  Poodle  (pp.  222-24),  yet  it  is  in 
outline  rather  than  in  detail.  The  most  effective  plan  of 
structure  is  that  in  which  each  detail  leads  unerringly 
to  the  final  culmination.  The  incidents  accumulate, 
each  bringing  the  reader  closer  and  closer  to  the  goal. 
He  may  not  be  conscious  whither  he  is  tending,  but  the 
coherence  of  event  after  event  leads  him  on  surely  to 
the  inevitable  issue.  This  is  especially  clear  in  the 
case  of  "hoax  plots,"  like  Marjorie  Daw  and  The  Lady 
or  the  Tiger  ?  in  which  the  reader  suddenly  finds  him- 
self completely  hoodwinked,  but  realizes  that  it  is  all 
his  own  fault  and  that  from  the  beginning  the  trend 
of  events  has  been  thoroughly  consecutive  and  logi- 
cal. A  good  example  of  this  coherent  structure  is  to 
be  found  in  Balzac's  La  Grande  Breteche.  The  point  of 
view  changes  repeatedly  from  that  of  the  narrator  to 
that  of  one  or  another  of  the  actors;  yet,  when  one  has 
completed  the  narrative,  he  realizes  how  many  unnoted 
incidents,  apparently  trivial,  are  essential  links  in  the 
plot-chain,  and  the  story  conveys  not  only  the  impres- 


FORMS  OF  NARRATIVE  LITERATURE      271 

sion  of  perfect  unity  but  of  carefully  planned  sequence 
as  well. 

While  the  short-story  may  concern  itself  with  a  single 
incident,  as  in  the  case  of  Markheim,  it  frequently  has 
occasion  to  use  the  episodic  form;  and  the  linking  of  the 
episodes  then  becomes  a  very  critical  consideration  in 
view  of  the  compact  unity  and  coherence  essential  to  the 
type.  This  difficulty  may  be  met  by  a  careful  process  (1) 
of  subordination  or  (2)  of  close  coordination.  Merimee's 
Taking  of  the  Redoubt  is  an  excellent  illustration  of  the 
first.  The  reader  does  not  instinctively  divide  this  into 
individual  episodes  of  equal  rank :  (1)  The  arrival  in  camp 
on  the  evening  of  September  4;  (2)  the  events  of  the 
night  before  the  battle;  (3)  the  opening  of  the  battle; 
(4)  the  assault  on  th^  redoubt.  Rather  all  merge  into  (4). 
The  presentation  of  the  young  lieutenant  to  his  captain 
becomes  merely  introductory  and  fades  insensibly  into 
(2),  which  in  turn,  in  the  very  middle  of  a  sentence, 
resolves  itself  into  (3),  all  the  episodes  standing  in  dis- 
tinct subordination  to  the  main  theme  of  the  story. 
Morrison's  On  the  Stairs  is  another  instance,  less  smooth, 
perhaps,  in  mechanical  execution,  yet  revealing  the  dis- 
tinctly subordinate  role  of  the  contributory  incidents. 

The  Great  Stone  Face  and  Flute  and  Violin  are  exam- 
ples of  the  coordinating  structure.  Here  the  bond  of 
coherence  appears  in  the  close  sequence  by  which  event 
follows  logically  upon  event.  The  transition  between  the 
consecutive  stages  in  Ernest's  career  is  traceable  in  such 
expressions  as 

The  years  went  on,  and  Ernest  ceased  to  be  a  boy.  He  had 
grown  to  be  a  man  now,  etc. 

More  years  sped  swiftly  and  tranquilly  away.  Ernest  still 
dwelt  in  his  native  valley,  and  was  now  a  man  of  middle  age, 
etc. 


272    RHETORICAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  NARRATION 

The  years  hurried  onward,  treading  in  their  haste  on  one 
another's  heels.  And  now  they  began  to  bring  white  hairs,  and 
scatter  them  over  the  head  of  Ernest;  they  made  reverend 
wrinkles  across  his  forehead,  and  furrows  in  his  cheeks.  He 
was  an  aged  man,  etc. 

The  reader  passes  from  stage  to  stage  without  percepti- 
ble jar,  guided  by  the  thread  of  chronological  succes- 
sion and  the  gradual  development  and  growing  matur- 
ity of  Ernest's  personality. 

In  Flute  and  Violin  the  episode  gradations  are  empha- 
sized by  the  division  of  the  story  into  sections,  or  minia- 
ture chapters.  But  so  intimately  are  they  bound  together 
by  the  temporal  and  logical  inter-relations  already  set 
forth  on  pp.  167-72  that  the  final  effect  is  one  of  entire 
coherence  and  natural  transition  from  the  August  even- 
ing in  1809,  when  the  parson  makes  his  first  appearance, 
until  1814,  when  "loved  and  revered,  he  passed  onward 
to  the  close." 

This  matter  of  episodic  coordination  is  intimately  al- 
lied to  the  matter  of  proportion  and  emphasis.  It  may  be 
that  the  essential  episode,  or  event,  is,  in  matter  of  act- 
ual space  assigned,  inferior  to  the  preliminary  and  the 
supplementary  matter.  But,  if  this  be  the  case,  the  au- 
thor must  be  sensitive  to  what  we  may  call  the  potential- 
ity of  his  main  incident :  it  must  possess  sufficient  dynamic 
power  to  impress  itself  on  the  reader,  or  the  essential 
quality  of  the  short-story  is  lost.  Of  the  sixty  pages  of 
Flute  and  Violin,  for  example,  perhaps  not  "more  than 
one  tenth  01*  that  number  is  devoted  to  the  elabora- 
tion of  the  episode  that  is  the  germ  of  the  whole  story, 
but  the  pathos  of  that  one,  its  emotional  force,  is  suffi- 
cient to  make  of  it  a  centre  from  which  all  the  others 
radiate. 


FORMS  OF  NARRATIVE  LITERATURE      273 

This  nice  adjustment  of  proportion  and  force  is  often 
secured  by  the  effective  device  of  an  intense  conclusion. 
"Hoax-plot"  stories  all  illustrate  this  device,  as  do  all 
those  constructed  on  the  plan  already  illustrated  by  the 
diagram  in  figure  11  on  page  221.  The  concluding  sen- 
tence reveals  effectively  the  destination  of  the  plot-course, 
and  relieves  the  suspense  that  has  been  accumulating 
through  the  various  episodes.  Examples  of  such  con- 
clusions have  already  been  indicated  in  the  discussion 
of  emphasis  in  plot  structure. 

From  all  these  considerations  it  is  apparent  that  the 
rhetorical  qualities  of  the  short-story — coherence,  em- 
phasis, proportion  —  all  lead  ultimately  back  to  unity 
as  the  essential  and  all-pervading  quality  of  structure. 
If  it  lacks  this  one-ness  of  tone,  this  complete  subordi- 
nation of  parts  to  the  underlying  motive,  it  fails  in  its 
very  nature.  And  in  its  perfection  and  completeness  of 
structure  we  have,  as  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson 
has  said,  — 

the  conditions  of  perfect  art;  there  is  no  subdivision  of  in- 
terest; the  author  can  strike  directly  in,  without  preface,  can 
move  with  determined  step  toward  a  conclusion,  and  can  — 
O  highest  privilege !  —  stop  when  he  is  done. 


INDEX 


Action  in  characterization.  See 
Character  and  characterization. 

Aldrich,  Marjorie  Daw,  48,  54, 
221,  236,  249,  270. 

Allen.  A.  V.  G.,  Life  of  Phillips 
Brooks,  178. 

Allen,  J.  L.,  Flute  and  Violin,  47, 
49,  54,  59-64,  153,  163, 166-72, 
201-02,  236,  271, 272;  The  Choir 
Invisible,  154,  257,  269;  Two 
Gentlemen  of  Kentucky,  126-27. 

Amadis  of  Gaul,  255. 

Anstey,  The  Black  Poodle,  222-24, 
270. 

Argumentation  vs.  Narration,  12- 
13. 

Arnold,  Sweetness  and  Light,  8-9. 

Asyndeton,  39. 

Atmosphere.  See  Setting. 

Austen,  Emma,  125. 

Autobiography,  251-53. 

Balance  in  massing.  See  Plot  and 
Plot  structure  (Emphasis). 

Baldwin,  200,  205,  234. 

Balzac,  A  Passion  in  the  Desert, 
227-28;  La  Grande  Breteche, 
196-98,  270. 

Bancroft,  History  of  the  United 
States,  178,  205. 

Bates,  Talks  on  Writing  English, 
91-92. 

Bible,  The,  Apostles  at  Bethsaida, 
'  21;  Esther,  180,  195,  205-17, 
261,  262,  269,  270;  Joseph's 
coat,  39,  267;  Messengers  at 
the  house  of  Simon,  20;  Naaman 
and  Elisha,  185-87,  191,  200- 
01;  Prodigal  Son,  24-26,  28,  66, 
79, 117;  Ruth,  261,  262,  266-67. 

Biography,  250-54;  and  History, 
250-51.;  See  also  Autobiography. 

Blackmore,  Lorna  Doone,  257,  269. 

Boswell,  Life  of  Johnson,  159. 


Bourienne,  Memoirs  of  Napoleon, 
180. 

Bryce,  7-8,  117, 

Bulwer-Lytton,  Harold,  73,  247- 
48;  The  Coming  Race,  260;  The 
Last  of  the  Barons,  229-30. 

Burr,  The  Autobiography,  252-53. 

Cable,  84. 

Caricature.     See    Character   and 

characterization . 
Carlyle,  French  Revolution,  51. 
Catastrophe,  215-17. 
Character  and  characterization  — 
Clearness,  146-50;  type  and  in- 
dividual, 147-49;  caricature, 
149-50. 

Coherence,  172-77;  exposition 
and  evolution,  172-74;  con- 
densation, 176. 

Definition,  personage  and  per- 
sonality, 107-13. 
Direct,  114-16. 
Emphasis,  151. 
Fiction,  112-13. 
History,  176-77,  240-45. 
Indirect,    116-46;     by    action, 
119-23;    by  speech,   123-43; 
by  environment,  143-46. 
Insufficient  details,  132-33. 
Point  of  view,  154-66;  first  per- 
son,   157-59;   focal,    160-61; 
external,    161-66;   objective, 
162-63;    subjective,    163-66. 
Unity,    150-72. 
Chester,  Forty  Seconds,  198. 
Chesterton,  54. 
Clarendon,  118-19. 
Climax,    in     drama,  211-13 ;    in 
novel,  217-18;    in    short-story, 
217;  in  plot  structure,  201-24; 
method    of  chronicle,    203-05; 
method    of     drama,      205-19; 
method  of  story,  219-24. 


276 


INDEX 


Coherence,  in  characterization, 
172-77;  in  definition  of  narra- 
tion, 4-5;  in  episodic  narrative, 
58-64;  in  item,  37-50;  in  plot 
structure,  123,  199-201;  in 
short-story,  270-72. 

Coleridge,  106. 

Collins,  59. 

Contrast.  See  Plot  structure,  and 
setting. 

Crawford,  The  Novel,  What  it  is, 
177. 

Day,  Sandford  and  Merton,  134- 
35. 

Definiteness  in  plot.  See  Plot  and 
Plot  structure. 

Definition,  fundamental,  1-6. 

Defoe,  180;  Robinson  Crusoe,  111- 
12,  135,  158,  189,  255. 

Deland,  128;  Awakening  of  Helena 
Ritchie,  52. 

De  Morgan,  262;  Alice-for-Short, 
5. 

Denouement,  191-92. 

De  Quincey,  Autobiography,  38- 
39. 

Description,  insincere.  See  Setting. 
Vs.  Narration,  13-18. 

Development  in  setting.  See  Set- 
ting. 

Dialect,  139-43. 

Dickens,  124;  Bleak  House,  5,  96, 
227;  Child's  Dream  of  a  Star, 
229;  David  Copperfield,  125-26, 
174-75,  181,  182,  195;  Dombey 
and  Son,  17-18,  135-36;  Martin 
Chuzzlewit,  125-26,  149,  150-51, 
152, 179;  Nicholas  Nickleby,  179, 
195;  Pickwick  Papers,  96,  136, 
179;  Tale  of  Two  Cities,  16-17, 
26-27,  87-89,  92-93,  151-52, 
161,  216. 

Direct  characterization.  See  Char- 
acter and  characterization. 

Doyle,  59. 

Dramatic  setting.  See  Setting, 

Eliot,  106,  113,  114,  158  1/6,  257; 
Adam  Bede,  52,  84,  loMl,  Il4 
16, 120-23, 161;  Daniel  Deronda, 


57,  66, 177;  Middlemarch,  5, 151 ; 
Romola,  57,  83,  146,  216,  268; 
Silas  Marner,  3,  9,  55,  174,  218, 
258,  259;  The  Mill  on  the  Floss, 
151. 

Emotional  element  in  history. 
See  History  (characteristics). 

Emphasis:  in  episodic  narrative, 
53-56;  in  item,  31-37;  in  plot, 
224-38;  in  short-story,  272-73. 

English  prose  romances,  103-104. 

Environment :  in  character.  See 
Character  and  characteriza- 
tion. In  setting.  See  Setting. 

Episodic  narrative,  23-28,  50-64; 
coherence,  58-64;  emphasis,  53- 
56;  plot  structure,  199;  propor- 
tion, 56-58;  short-story,  271; 
unity,  50-53. 

Erskine,  Defence  of  Lord  Gordon, 
13. 

Exposition  in  dramatic  action, 
208-09;  vs.  Narration,  6-12. 

Expository  setting.   See  Setting. 

Falling  action,  207,  213-15. 
Fielding,  Tom  Jones,  57,  262. 
Fiske,  8. 
Freeman,  History  of  the  Norman 

Conquest,  51. 
Froude,  History  of  England,  51,  84, 

245. 

Gibbon,  6,  51,  84,  162,  187,  242, 

245,  246. 
Glasgow,  Romance  of  a  Plain  Man, 

230. 

Godwin,  Fleetwood,  105, 106. 
Green,  A.  K.,  59,  84;  The  Filigree 

Ball,  137-39. 
Green,  J.  H.,  Short  History  of  the 

English  People,  32,  34,  51,  117, 

120,  144,  145-46,  176-77,  237. 
Grote,  History  of  Greece,  51,  242. 

Hale,  My  Double  and  How  He  Un- 
did Me,  52. 

Hamilton,  Materials  and  Methods 
of  Fiction,  101,  103,  267-68. 

Hardy,  187;  Far  From  the  Mad- 
ding Crowd,  71-72,  123;  less  of 


INDEX 


277 


the  D'Urbervilles,  27,  52,  76-77, 
80,  140,  144,  166,  233;  The  Re- 
turn of  the  Native,  84,  228;  The 
Three  Strangers,  221-22,  236, 
237;  The  Withered  Arm,  232, 
264. 

Harmony  between  background 
and  action.  See  Setting. 

Harris,  Uncle  Remus  and  His 
Friends,  142-43. 

Harte,  The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat, 
107-08,  112,  117-18,  162-63, 
172-73,  264,  269. 

Hawthorne,  Note-Book,  265,  267; 
The  Ambitious  Guest,  264;  The 
Great  Stone  Face,  52,  55,  80-82, 
87,  89,  112,  154,  267,  269,  271- 
72;  The  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables,  148-49;  The  Marble 
Faun,  216;  The  Scarlet  Letter,  5, 
114. 

Heightening,   See  Rise. 

Herodotus,  244. 

Hewlett,  Richard  Yea-and-Nay, 
76,  218-19,  230-31,  270;  The 
Madonna  of  the  Peach  Tree,  53. 

Higginson,  273. 

History,  5-6,  239-50;  character- 
istics, 165,  181-82,  240-45; 
characterization  in,  246-48; 
plot  structure,  248-50;  propor- 
tion, 57-58;  rank  of,  239-40; 
setting,  245-46;  unity,  50-52. 
See  also  Biography,  and  Charac- 
ter and  characterization. 

Hoax-plot,  273. 

Holmes,  Sherlock,  5. 

Hope  [Hawkins],  The  Dolly  Dia- 
logues, 118. 

Home,  The  Technique  of  the 
Novel,  112-13,  255. 

Hugo,  Les  Miserables,  73-74. 

Hume,  History  of  England,  51,  52, 
162,  166,  187. 

Indirect  characterization.  See 
Character  and  characterization. 

Initial  stress  in  massing.  See  Plot, 
and  plot  structure  (Emphasis). 

Intellectual  elements  in  History. 
See  History  (Characteristics). 


Irving,  Rip  Van  Winkle,  86,  176. 
Item,  22-23,  29- .in. 

Coherence,  37-50;  structure  of 
sentences,    38-46;    order    of 
details,  46-50. 
Emphasis,  31-37. 
Unity,  29-31. 

James,  162. 

Jewett,  The  Country  of  the  Pointed 
Firs,  84-85. 

Kingsley,  Westward  Ho!  83,  257. 
Kipling,   The  Man  Who  would  be 
King,  53. 

Lafayette,  The  Princess  of  Cleves, 

255. 
Lincoln,  Gettysburg  Address,  234- 

35. 

Literary  Digest,  30. 
Local  color.   See  Setting. 
Lockhart,  Life  of  Scott,  55. 
Lodge,  104. 

Macaulay,  54,  165,  166,  187,  242, 
243,  244-45,  247;  Clive,  34-36; 
Hallams  Constitutional  History 
of  England,  162,  241-42;  Hamp- 
den,  228-29;  Hastings,  102-03; 
History  of  England,  11-12,  41, 
51,  57,  83,  118-19;  Milton, 
225-26;  Pitt,  140-41,  152-53, 
155;  Temple,  232-33;  Walpole, 
155-56,201,  204. 

Macmillan's  Magazine,  143. 

Mansfield,  Beau  Brummel,  174. 

Marie,  128-33,  175-76. 

Marivaux,  Marianne,  255. 

Marryat,  Peter  Simple,  141-42. 

Massing.  See  Plot,  and  Plot 
structure. 

Matthews,  14,  261. 

Maupassant,  Happiness,  52,  65, 
74-75,  78,  264,  269;  The  Neck- 
lace, 3,  23,  48,  162-63,  173,  176, 
221. 

Meredith,  113,  257;  Diana  of  the  • 
Crossways,  227;  The  Egoist,  66,   / 
112,  177;  The  Ordeal  of  Richard 
Feverel,  162,  236. 


278 


INDEX 


Merimee,  The  Taking  of  the  Re- 
doubt, 269-70,  271. 

Method  of  Chronicle,  drama,  and 
story.  See  Plot  structure. 

Moment  of  exciting  force,  209-10. 

Moment  of  final  suspense,  213-15. 

Mommsen,  History  of  Rome,  205, 
246. 

Morrison,  On  the  Stairs,  227-28, 
271. 

Muir,  The  Mountains  of  Califor- 
nia, 12-13. 

Narration,  definition,  1-6;  vs.  Ar- 
gumentation, 12-13;  vs.  Descrip- 
tion, 13-18;  vs.  Exposition,  6-12. 

Newcastle,  Duke  of,  140-41. 

Newman,  Apologia  pro  Vita  Sua, 
159. 

Norris,  The  Pit,  94,  95,  259. 

Novel,  Climax  in  the,  217-18;  de- 
finition, 254-57;  realistic  and 
romantic,  257-61.  See  also 
Character  and  characterization. 

Order  of  details  in  item.  See 
Item. 

Page,  128. 

Palmer,  Life  of  Alice  Freeman 
Palmer,  5,  156-57,  204. 

Parkman,  The  Conspiracy  of  Pon- 
tiac,  78-79,  84. 

Pathetic  Fallacy,  98-101. 

Pepys,  Diary,  159. 

Perry,  A  Study  of  Prose  Fiction, 
265-66. 

Personage  and  personality.  See 
Character  and  characterization. 

Petrie,  Egyptian  Tales,  261. 

Phillpotts,  The  Virgin  in  Judg- 
ment, 94. 

Picaresque  fiction,  189. 

Plot,  definition,  65,  178-82;  in  fic- 
tion, 269-70;  in  history  and 
biography,  181-82. 

Plot  structure  — 

Climax,     201-04;    method    of 
chronicle,  203-05;  method  of 
drama,    205-19;    method   of 
story,  219-24. 
Coherence,  123,  199-201. 


Emphasis,  224-38;  definiteness, 

237-38;  massing,  225-33. 
Massing,  225-33;  balance,  228- 
32;  contrast,  232-33;  initial 
position,  225-28;  terminal 
position,  225-28.  See  Em- 
phasis. 

Proportion,  233-36. 
Unity,  183-99;  definition,  183- 
88;  emotional,  187-88;  intel- 
lectual,    183-87;     complica- 
tion, 188-93;  point  of  view, 
193-99;  simplification,  198-99. 
Poe,    75-76,    263;    The    Cask   of 
Amontillado,  264;    The  Fall  of 
the  House    of    Usher,  52,  269; 
The  Gold  Bug,   112,   235;    The 
Masque  of  the  Red  Death,  269. 
Point  of  view.    See  Character  and 
characterization  and  Plot  struc- 
ture. (rv-/t>£ 

Prescott,  The  Conquest  of  Peru, 
233. 

Priest,  The,  97-98. 

Proportion  in  episodic  narrative, 
56-58;  in  historic  narrative,  57— 
58;  in.  item,  36-37;  in  plot  struc- 
ture, 233-36  ;  in  short-story, 
272-73. 

Radcliffe,  The  Mysteries  <?  Vdol- 

ph  ,105. 

Raieigh,7V^  English  Novel,lW-6l. 
Realism  in  fiction.  See  Novel. 
Reynard  the  Fox,  267. 
Rhetorical  Elements  in  plot.   See 

Plot  and  Plot  structure. 
Rhodes,  235,  245,  246. 
Richardson,  160-61,  255,  266. 
Rising  action,  207,  210-11. 
Romance.   See  Novel. 
Roosevelt,  30-31. 
Ropes,  242. 
Ruskin,  Modern  Painters,  98-99. 

Saintsbury,  History  of  Nineteenth 
Century  Literature,  184. 

Scientific  spirit  of  history.  See 
History. 

Scott,  106,  179,  258;  Ivanhoe,  56, 
149,  161,*  189-90,  247,  258; 


INDEX 


279 


Kenilworih,  113,  120,  146,  257, 
260;  Redgauntlet  (Wandering 
Willie's  Tale],  262;  Rob  Roy,  66, 
194;  The  Antiquary,  260;  The 
Highland  Widow,  40,  54;  The 
Talisman,  258;  Waverley,  257. 

Sentence  articulation.   See  Item. 

Series  and  succession,  199,  204-05. 

Setting,  atmosphere,  85-87;  con- 
trast with  action,  77-79;  defini- 
tion, 65-67;  development,  101- 
06;  environment,  79-82;  exposi- 
tory and  dramatic,  67-82;.  har- 
mony with  action,  76-77;  his- 
torical narrative,  in,  see  His- 
tory; insincerity,  98-101;  local 
color,  82-85;  short-story,  in, 
see  Short-story;  symbolism,87- 
90;  undue  elaboration,  90-101. 

Shakspere,  Hamlet,  133,  152, 
153;  Julius  Caesar,  152,  210, 
212;  Macbeth,  86,  152,  209,  212; 
Othello,  152. 

Sheldon,  The  Sweat-Shop,  14. 

Short-story,  261-73;  characteris- 
tics and  definition,  262-68; 
climax,  217;  coherence,  270-72; 
emphasis  and  proportion,  272- 
73;  plot,  269-70;  setting,  269; 
ucity,  268-70;  vs.  short-story, 
2ti-  i2. 

Simplification  in  plot.  ,<St.  Plot 
and  Plot  structure. 

Single  thread  plots,  189. 

Smollett,  180. 

Southey,  106. 

Speech,  gesture,  etc.,  in  character. 
See  Character  and  characteriza- 
tion. 

Sidney,  104. 

Spenser,  104. 

Stevenson,  54,  106,  261;  A  Hum- 
ble Remonstrance,  183-84;  Dr. 
Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde,  15-16; 
Markheim,  78,  268,  271;  Memo- 
ries and  Portraits,  44,  183-84; 
The  Master  of  Ballantrae,  66, 
160;  Treasure  Island,  5,  113, 
194. 

Stockton,  The  Lady  or  the  Tiger? 
270. 


Symbolism  in  background.  See 
Setting. 

Taine,  102. 

Tale,  the,  262. 

Tennyson,  The  Idylls  of  the  King, 
155. 

Terminal  stress  in  massing. 
Plot   and  Plot  structure  (Em- 
phasis). 

Testimony,  undesigned,  137-39. 

Thackeray,  166,  26\;  Henry  Es- 
mond, 47,  48,  49,  152,  157-58, 
160,  192,  257;  Pendennis,  125- 
26;  The  Newcomes,  133,  136, 
152,  153,  161,  259,  261;  Vanity 
Fair,'  52,  151,  152,  164-65,  233. 

Thousand-and-One-Nights,  A,  261, 
267. 

Thucydides,  242. 

Title,  as  expressive  of  episodic 
unity,  52. 

Tragic  moment,  212. 

Trollope,  261. 

Type  and  individual.  See  Char- 
acter and  characterization. 

Undue  elaboration  of  background. 
See  Setting. 

Unity,  in  character,  see  Charac- 
ter and  characterization;  in  epi- 
sodic narrative,  see  Episodic 
narrative;  in  fundamental  de- 
finition, 4-5;  in  historic  narra- 
tive, see  History;  in  item,  see 
Item;  in  plot,  see  Plot  and  Plot 
•structure;  in  short-story,  see 
Short-story. 

Virgil,  JEneid,  48. 
Von  Hoist,'  249. 

Ward,  59,  177. 

Wendell,  34. 

Wilkins-Freeman,  A  New  England 

Nun,  84,  127,  132,  144^5,  264, 

269. 
Windle,   The  Wessex  of  Thomas 

Hardy,  70-71. 

Zola,  80. 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .    A 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
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